


Ichigo

by morrezela



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Pining, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrezela/pseuds/morrezela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They break up on a Wednesday</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes: I wrote this as if Hanzo is bisexual. Looking at it, you could also read this as Hanzo being pansexual if you so desire. Point is, I make non-graphic references to a previous lover who is female.
> 
> All mistakes you find are my own.
> 
> Discussions held in Japanese are in italics because I really don't feel like butchering a language I don't speak.

They break up on a Wednesday. Hanzo can recall each word they uttered in perfect clarity. He doubts that Jesse can. His lover… former lover has a hot temper. It is a flaw that many members of Overwatch have. They do not understand that Hanzo does not share this temper. Only his brother knows how to provoke him quickly.

 

Hanzo’s anger is a cold thing. It coils around his spine, nestles in the pit of his stomach, grows large before his expression ever dares to change. It gives him clarity. The world sharpens around him when his temper flares.

 

The words he spoke to Jesse had been harsh. They had built upon his tongue for what had seemed like ages. They had been the children of his fear. Fear that his intentions and Jesse’s did not match. He had thought that Jesse was of similar maturity and belief. He had been mistaken.

 

Hanzo is too old to be chasing dalliances and trysts. He seeks comfort and companionship along with heated kisses and aching skin. Pleasure of the body is secondary to having a partner who understands one’s moods and forgives them. Hanzo is angry with himself for thinking Jesse McCree might have been that person for him.

 

The base of operations where they are staying has no private rooms. They all share a common bunk area. For this, Hanzo is grateful. There will be no awkward moment where they exchange personal belongings. They are ended completely with a callous, “So long, Darlin’.”

 

Hanzo’s fists curl by his sides as sorrow swallows him. He will not cry. He has not shed tears of grief since he was a boy. Neither Genji’s death nor the shock of brother being alive has caused Hanzo to cry. The termination of a romance will not break him.

 

There is nothing left to do or say. There are enough witnesses to their ending that gossip will carry new of their breakup to all who care to know. As much as Hanzo wants to curl onto the thin mattress of his bunk, he dare not. Nothing will announce the pathetic state of his heart more loudly than sulking in such a manner.

 

Instead, he stalks to the area designated for target practice. His relationship with Jesse has been curtailing the amount of time spent honing his skills. He now seems to have an abundance of it to remedy that situation.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Missions become a place of relief for Hanzo. When in the field, no one speaks of him when they think he cannot hear. They do not talk of his coldness or liken his blood to that of ice water. When they speak to him, it is not out of pity or anger on Jesse’s behalf.

 

He supposes that his teammate’s opinions are, in part, his doing. Hanzo has never been good at making friends. Family responsibilities had made such a thing difficult. There had been few he could trust, and he had had little time to speak to those worthy of such an honor. Now, he finds that he does not have the penchant for small talk.

 

There is little he can think of to say. He has known those around him long enough to make introductions an impossibility. Many of the older members are Jesse’s friends or at least comrades. They favor him, and Hanzo knows why. He is personable, charming, and deadly. All of these traits make him an ideal friend to have in the Overwatch crowd.

 

Hanzo is lethal. His honor makes him trustworthy; it does not make him likeable. His teammates know that he will cover them and bring success on missions. They do not know that he hates strawberries and loves to sit in the rain. They do not care to know.

 

The missions blend together until they do not. One moment, Hanzo is listening to the yawns of his bored teammates, the next they are under fire. He curses under his breath as he lets his arrows fly. They meet their marks with devastating accuracy.

 

One runs two enemies through at once, earning him an impressed whistle from Jesse. Hanzo ignores it. He knows the other man did not mean to show appreciation for his skills. It is merely a leftover reflex from the days when they spoke to each other.

 

The battle is bloody. There is no other word for it. Part of Hanzo revels in it. One cannot be an assassin without taking pride in one’s work.

 

“Good job,” Soldier 76 grunts at him as the team crowds into their transport. Hanzo gives him a short nod of thanks. The old man does not praise others often. He also does not speak behind Hanzo’s back. He is only interested in destroying their enemies. As such, he seems not to care about gossip.

 

Hanzo sits down next to Soldier which just happens to be the seat farthest away from where Jesse is sitting. A small burst of pain travels through his backside as it contacts something that is definitely not a cushion. He stands back up immediately and plucks the object off his seat, cursing at himself for not seeing it. There had been a time where such carelessness would have earned him a punishment from his father.

 

His heart sinks when he realizes that it is a box of ammunition for Jesse’s revolver. It is his spare case. There are only so many bullets that he can keep in his ammo pouches, so he makes sure to travel with extra, “Just in case.”

 

Jesse will want the box. He had gone through many bullets during the battle. He will feel exposed without the comforting weight of ammunition hanging from his belt. Hanzo hates that he knows this, hates that he cares.

 

Schooling his face into as neutral a position as possible, Hanzo sharply turns and walks the short length of the carrier to where Jesse is happily chatting with Tracer. He either ignores or does not notice Hanzo’s approach.

 

Hanzo opens his mouth once, only to halt before a sound escapes his throat. “Jesse,” almost rolls off his tongue, but nobody on the team refers to him with that name. It is no longer his place to use it either.

 

“McCree,” he announces abruptly. It is not his imagination that the entire ship goes quiet. “You forgot this,” he says as he holds McCree’s precious ammunition out for him to take.

 

Hesitantly, McCree reaches out to take the box from Hanzo’s hand. McCree doesn’t look at his face. Hanzo can look nowhere but McCree’s. To look elsewhere would be cowardly. This is what he tells himself. He will allow no thought of other reasons.

 

“Thank you,” McCree says quietly.

 

Hanzo nods and walks back to his seat. Conversation starts up again, but not well enough to cover Tracer’s, “Much better off without him,” to McCree. Hanzo cannot completely suppress the flinch her words bring.

 

Soldier 76 clears his throat and loudly suggests they all work on their mission report while the mission is still fresh in their minds. His suggestion is met with a chorus of groans. Hanzo has never heard any proposal so glorious in his entire life.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

There are moments when Hanzo misses McCree. He misses sitting with him at night, watching the stars. He misses the way that McCree tells terrible jokes until Hanzo gives him a tiny smile. He misses the scent of McCree on his pillows, and he misses the warmth of him in his bed.

 

The bed he is currently resting on feels far too big. The last time he had been stationed at this base, McCree had shared it with him. Hanzo tries to take comfort in the fact that his bed would be empty even if they had not ended their relationship. McCree is on a different assignment.

 

The comfort he seeks does not come. Hanzo knows that he lies to himself. If they were still lovers, he would be missing McCree the same as he is now.

 

Sleep does not come. Restlessness causes Hanzo to rise from his bed and stalk around the small room. He thinks he would have preferred another set of barracks. The noise of other people helps distract his mind from thinking. All he has in this room are memories of a happier time.

 

A flash of red catches his eye. It is not the bright red light of a sniper rifle or ticking bomb, so he investigates it. Wedged between the mattress and the bedframe is a small square of soft, red wool. Hanzo gently frees it from its prison and holds it between his fingers.

 

He knows the exact serape that is missing this small piece of fabric. McCree had complained mightily about damage to his, “…favorite one.” Hanzo recalls teasing him about how they were all his favorites. His fingers twitch with the desire to send a message to inform McCree that he has the missing piece. That which is broken can be made whole again.

 

Hanzo clenches his fingers into fists and forces himself to let go of the idea.  McCree has other clothing. It is likely that he no longer mourns the damage to his serape.

 

But Hanzo cannot bring himself to throw the fabric into the trash receptacle. He has little left of their relationship but heartache. This is something warm and bright.

 

Slowly, he walks over to where he has stored his personal items. Hidden away is a small book. Its paper is onionskin; its binding is dark blue leather. His family’s crest is emblazoned on its front. It is a book used for only the most important of notes. Hanzo’s father had filled his with detailed exploits of his assassinations.

 

Hanzo has used his for a less macabre purpose. Interspersed through its pages are the pressed leaves of flowers, a lock of hair, his mother’s family recipe for oyakodon and random notes that at one point or another meant something to him. Hanzo does not spare a second glance at any of those entries.

 

He flips to the center of his notebook. There are two entries there, meant to be protected by the other pages should damage ever occur. An entire page is a smear of dried blood. Hanzo does not know if it is his or Genji’s. He only knows that he wiped it from his hand after he thought he had killed his brother.

 

On the other page is a soft sketch of a woman. A cherry blossom is pressed under her portrait. Both the image and flower had been put there by Hanzo’s hand long before he battled with his brother.

 

Sakiko had stolen his heart. She had been beautiful, intelligent and kind. Hanzo had asked her to become his wife. She had declined this invitation. Word had reached her of what the Shimada Clan was, what Hanzo was. Sakiko had told him she could not love a man who would do such things.

 

Hanzo turns her page over and lays McCree’s scrap of fabric onto the blank page he finds there. He digs a pen out of his bag and scratches the lines of Jesse’s face from memory. It is not as good as his drawing of Sakiko. Hanzo is many years out of practice, and his pen is not the fine art one he had used for hers.

 

Not to mention that drawings from memory are never as accurate as those made from a subject or even a photograph. Memory plays tricks on one’s hand. But Hanzo knows who his crude lines represent. When he has time, he will glue the fabric below McCree’s picture so it does not fall out.

 

Hanzo shuts the book.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A week passes by, and Hanzo begins to feel comfortable again. The people he is working with were not there to witness his fight with McCree. McCree is not around to make the other teammates feel like they have to take sides.

 

This break does not last long. Pharah is injured in a skirmish. She needs recovery time. Winston sends McCree to replace her. Hanzo wonders if he accidentally stepped on the boarder of a tatami mat at some point for his luck is not good.

 

McCree is loud and boisterous. He takes up the space in any room. As such, Hanzo starts avoiding the communal eating area. When D.Va asks about it, he says that he can only handle so much western food. She gives him a soft look of understanding and lets the subject drop.

 

His words are filthy lies. Hanzo is sorely tempted by the smell of bacon that wafts down the hallway in the mornings. It is different from the bacon typically sold in Japan. McCree is the one who made Hanzo develop a taste for the American style bacon. Hanzo hates him all the more for it now that McCree’s presences prevents Hanzo from indulging in his bacon addiction.

 

Instead, Hanzo makes rice in his room. He feels a touch pathetic having a small rice cooker sitting on his dresser, but it is still better than the alternative of listening to McCree charm their teammates. Once his rice is done cooking, Hanzo takes it and the pre-made bowl of natto that he had purchased at a local market outside. Rain hits him with a fine mist. The steam from his rice is even more apparent in the cold air, its heat rapidly evaporating.

 

Hanzo sits down at the worn and wobbly picnic table somebody had thoughtfully dragged back from a landfill somewhere. Even though he and his food are getting wet, he feels better being alone. Of course, this illusion of privacy is broken rather quickly.

 

A curious whir and beep echoes from under a nearby alcove. Bastion is sitting under one of the eaves, no doubt attempting to protect his metal bits from the water. When Hanzo looks at him, he does not have the immediate rush of suspicion and disgust that he might once have had.

 

That, at least, is a reason for pride. Hanzo has struggled to accept what his brother has become. He is responsible for Genji’s body. No matter what his brother might say, it is Hanzo who damaged him. Dr. Ziegler’s life saving measures are not to blame.

 

“They are loud.” As far as explanations go, it is not a good one. Thankfully, Bastion does not seem inclined to push the issue. He bleeps and whistles a few times and stomps over to the picnic table before folding himself into his turret form to hide under it.

 

Hanzo elects to say nothing. The omnic is not disturbing him. He is almost glad for the company.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Slowly, Hanzo begins to build a different life for himself. Because the base is a nicer one than the last, there is a proper practice range. He throws himself into practicing on different programmed scenarios. Sometimes Bastion joins him, running around on metal legs, trying to shoot targets without shifting into his turret form.

 

Hanzo earns the top score in many programs. A vicious part of him tries to knock McCree from his scoreboard pedestal for close range shooting, but it is no use. A bow is no match for a revolver for such close range attacks. That does not stop Hanzo from doing his best.

 

For whatever reason, Bastion has decided that they are friends. Perhaps it is because of the communication barriers he faces with the team. Bastion does not speak words. Hanzo barely speaks at all. When he does, he never tells his new friend that he does not comprehend all of his clicks and whistles. It would do no good.

 

More than that, Hanzo remembers when he began to speak English on a regular basis. Practicing it in school rooms or with tutors had been a far different experience than speaking in conversations with native speakers. There had been people who spoke louder as if his fluency in the language corresponded with the volume with which it was spoken. There had been a few that mocked his accent behind his back. And there had been a few who never could understand him.

 

Hanzo refuses to emulate those people. He assumes that Winston or even Dr. Ziegler would be able to retrofit Bastion with the hardware needed to speak like more advanced omnics do. He does not know why Bastion does not have this procedure done, nor does he care. Respect is the basis for friendship, and Hanzo will not disrespect his friend’s choices.

 

They are an odd pair, communicating in grunts, beeps and gestures. Hanzo buys Bastion’s bird sunflower seeds at a local market. In return, it elects to perch on the tip of Hanzo’s bow on occasion. He calls it Wee-Woo because he cannot emulate Bastion’s mechanical sounds. He can only say what they sound like to the human ear.

 

Admittedly, the name “Wee-Woo” sounds ridiculous coming out of his mouth. Hanzo knows that good humor is not a sparkling facet of his personality. He is serious. He speaks seriously. “Wee-Woo,” coming out of his mouth never fails to make him cringe. That does not stop him from calling for the bird to give it a treat.

 

When they have to fly out for their next mission, Hanzo thinks nothing of Wee-Woo fluttering out of his nest on Bastion and landing on the top of Hanzo’s bow. Automatically, Hanzo fetches the small satchel of seeds he keeps for this occasion and holds his palm up for the bird to peck its afternoon snack from his hand. Wee-Woo trills the song of his kind as he gets the expected treat.

 

Hanzo feels eyes watching him, so he shifts his gaze. He immediately wishes he hadn’t. McCree is observing him with an intensity that Hanzo cannot name.  Anger comes to mind, but Hanzo has seen McCree angry before. The expressions do not match.

 

Whatever McCree is feeling, Hanzo cannot allow the other man to keep staring. He reminds himself that he does not care about McCree’s feelings any longer. They are teammates, nothing more. Hanzo stares back and arches his eyebrows in a questioning challenge.

 

McCree startles and looks way. Only he turns a more familiar glare in Bastion’s direction. Hanzo sighs to himself. He can still recall every inch of McCree’s body, but explaining the man’s moods escapes him. He is tempted to speak, but he cannot summon words that will not cause conflict. He remains silent.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The mission is successful. For this, Hanzo is most grateful. There are minimal injuries. The supplies they were sent to liberate are secured. They left no survivors to compromise the mission.

 

The flight back to base is mostly quiet. Fighting as they do is strenuous. It is no surprise that the team is tired.

 

Hanzo is the last to depart the transport. He puts away the basketballs and tidies the supply crates on the wall. One never knows when they will be called out on an emergency mission.

 

When he is satisfied, Hanzo turns off the cabin lights and departs the ship. The night is clear. The stars shining down belong to different constellations than the ones in his memories, but they give him a pang of nostalgia nonetheless. A snort escapes Hanzo’s lips. He calls himself a sentimental fool and increases the pace of his stride.

 

“Where you goin’ in such a hurry?” McCree’s drawl startles him enough that Hanzo halts in his tracks. McCree melts out of the shadows. There is no cigar in his mouth, no red ember to alert others to his presence. Clearly, he has been waiting for Hanzo.

 

“What is it that you want?” Hanzo asks bluntly. The words do not sound kind. Despite McCree’s relaxed posture, Hanzo can see the way the other man bristles at his tone.

 

“You’ve been hanging around Bastion an awful lot lately,” McCree says.

 

Now it is Hanzo’s turn to bristle. “I fail to see what your interest is in the matter - unless you wish to apologize for leaving me little opportunity to call those around me friends.”

 

Hurt flashes in McCree’s eyes, then anger. “It ain’t my fault you’re not an easy man to get along with.”

 

“Yet here you are speaking to me,” Hanzo points out.

 

“You being an ornery bastard don’t mean I can’t worry,” McCree grumbles.

 

“Worry? About Bastion? You are absurd,” Hanzo scoffs. He moves to walk past McCree. His progress is halted by the feeling of warm fingers curling around his wrist.

 

For a second, Hanzo’s heart pounds in his chest. He squashes the excitement with ruthless coldness.

 

“You can’t hide around, only talking to an omnic who can’t speak words. It’s… I…” McCree stammers. The look on his face is the same one he had on the transport before the mission.

 

It dawns on Hanzo, what that look means. He has seen it on his own face many times when McCree seemed to flirt with any civilian they came across. Jealousy is an ugly emotion.

 

“How dare you,” Hanzo spits as he yanks his wrist from McCree’s grasp. “You have no _right_ to be jealous. You of all men.”

 

“Now wait just a minute,” McCree says.

 

“No!” Hanzo barks. “I will not wait for you to speak dishonorable words against my friendship.”

 

“I’m just trying to…”

 

“I do not care what you are trying to say or do. I do not care _what_ you say or do.” Hanzo interrupts. “Do you understand?”

 

McCree swallows and takes a step back from Hanzo. “Crystal clear,” he grunts.

 

“Good,” Hanzo gives him a curt nod and stalks away.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The next morning is dark. Rain clouds fill the sky. Hanzo rises and dresses as he always does, but he stops short of leaving his quarters. Much as he would like it to be otherwise, he wants to avoid McCree after their conversation. The feeling is ridiculous. Hanzo knows that he was the one in the right.

 

But Hanzo is tired of being uncomfortable. The act of appearing calm and unbothered wears on him. There is a part of him that yearns to return to his previous life. Not as the head of the Shimada family, but as a faceless assassin. Living that life is in many ways easier.

 

A knock at the door forces Hanzo to open it. He thinks of not answering, but decides it would be rude. He is rewarded with the sight of his brother’s mask when the door swings open.

 

“Genji,” Hanzo stares for a moment before realizing he is being rude. He hastily bows, shuffles to the side, and gestures his brother into his room.

 

 _“Good morning to you too, Hanzo,”_ Genji says with some humor as he returns the bow with more grace.

 

It is nice to hear his native tongue spoken, even if it is in the still unfamiliar sound of Genji’s robotic voice. It is nicer still to not have his tendency to bow brought up. Most of Overwatch prefers to shake hands in greeting. But Hanzo cannot break a habit ingrained in him by the stern lectures of his father.

 

 _“You were not in the mess hall,”_ Genji comments. His words are friendly, and Hanzo still does not know how his brother can speak to him with such kindness. Joining Overwatch cannot have been the only thing he wanted from Hanzo.

 

 _“I am not hungry,”_ Hanzo lies as he shuts the door. _“I did not know you were coming,”_ he adds on in an attempt to change the course of the conversation.

 

 _“Supply exchange,”_ Genji informs him, _“I volunteered to assist so that I could come see what sort of guilt you have been wallowing in lately.”_

 

Hanzo’s teeth grind together instantly. _“I am not wallowing.”_

 

The tilt of Genji’s head says that his brother does not believe him. But instead of the words Hanzo expects to come, Genji’s head titles further. He turns his body and slowly observes the entire room.

 

 _“What happened to McCree’s ridiculous hot pepper figurine collection?”_ Genji asks.

 

 _“He put it in storage like always when we are stationed in communal living,”_ Hanzo answers, voice catching over _“we”_ for just the barest of seconds.

 

 _“That does not explain why he did not put it back up,”_ Genji point out.

 

Hanzo says nothing. He hears the sharp intake of breath his brother takes. It whistles through the metal vents of his mechanical respirator.

 

 _“He broke your heart,”_ Genjis says.

 

 _“It is old news,”_ Hanzo informs him.

 

 _“You do not look like it is, ‘old news,'”_ Genji observes. _“You look horrible.”_

 

Hanzo smiles bitterly. _“I assure you, much time has passed since we parted ways.”_

_“Yet you did not tell me of this,”_ Genji points out.

 

Hanzo can hear the hurt in his brother’s voice. _“I had hoped that gossip would do that for me.”_

 

Genji inclines his head to the side. _“But why?”_

 

Hanzo sighs and looks away from his brother. _“I did not want to admit to another failure. I had thought that time had caused me to be wiser, more perceptive in selecting a partner. As it happens, I was much mistaken on that account. I am as foolish as ever.”_

_“He cheated on you?”_ Genji asks.

_“No… I do not know,”_ Hanzo corrects himself _. “He did not view our relationship a seriously as I did. Who knows what he considered ‘cheating’ when his relationship was not one of commitment?”_

Genji says nothing for a few minutes. The silence suits Hanzo. What else is there to say?

 

Eventually, the alarm Hanzo sets to remind him of his practice range slot starts to chime. A loud country western song blares out, the result of McCree’s long ago tampering. Hanzo hasn’t had the heart to change it. He quickly shuts it off. _“My apologies,”_ he says, _“I forgot that was set.”_

_“There is no need to apologize. You did not know that I was coming,”_ Genji’s voice is kind as he speaks. It makes Hanzo bristle. He is the older brother. Weakness is not to be shown.

 

But, Hanzo reminds himself, that is a position long since given up. He relaxes his shoulders and shakes his head at himself. Is it any wonder that McCree’s interest was only skin deep? Hanzo is not blind to his own faults. Even when others mean kindness towards him, he is difficult.

_“You remain constant, brother,”_ Genji observes. He sounds amused. _“I am comforted by the fact that you do not change. If the world collapses, I will find you perched atop the rubble, waiting to shoot other survivors for interrupting your contemplations.”_

The joke is old. It is something that Genji used to say to him when he would collapse from the strain of training, but Hanzo would stay on his feet from pure stubbornness. Hanzo wonders if Zenyatta has managed to teach Genji the perseverance all the Shimada masters could not.

 

Hanzo rewards his brother with a small smile. _“If you wish to join me, I have time reserved for target practice.”_  

 

 _“Fortunately, I will have to decline that offer,”_ Genji says. _“I am needed for the supply transfer. I am absolutely not refusing your invitation for fear of being beaten.”_

That earns Genji another quirk of Hanzo’s lips. _“Of course not,”_ he agrees. Shuriken are poor competition for Hanzo’s arrows. Even with cybernetic advantages, Genji’s aim is not comparable to his brother’s. He is better with his blades; Hanzo is better with distance.

 

At one point in their lives, this is not something that was true. There is a reason Hanzo had nearly killed his brother. Despite what many members of Overwatch think, it is not because Genji had been holding back. Hanzo has not touched a sword, katana, wakizashi or otherwise, since that day.

 

The pause in their conversation has gone on for too long. Hanzo can only assume that his brother’s thoughts travel down a road similar to his own. _“I will see you later?”_ he awkwardly asks.

 

 _“Yes,”_ Genji answers. They take their leave of each other, and Hanzo finds himself oddly grateful for thoughts of their past. If nothing else, they keep him from thinking of McCree.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sweat has dampened the hair on the back of Hanzo’s neck by the time he is done in the practice range. His stomach reminds him that he has not yet broke his fast for the day by way of inconvenient cramps. The clock says that it is a bit early for lunch, so he decides that swinging through the main kitchen should not cause distress.

 

The shouting echoing down the hallways informs Hanzo that his presumptions are wrong long before he catches sight of the kitchen door. For a moment, he thinks of retreating to the comforting quiet of his room. But he knows the voice of his brother even if he cannot yet decipher his words. To leave one’s brother in the midst of battle would be most dishonorable, so he quickens his step.

 

It does not take long to hear another, equally loud voice to reach his ears. McCree’s timber is well known to him. He has rested his head on the man’s chest, lulled to sleep by the rumblings of it.

 

Hanzo knows exactly what they are speaking about. There is no doubt in his mind that they are ‘discussing’ him. He wishes that he was surprised, but he knows Genji. The art of stoicism is something he could never grasp. It is oddly comforting that Zenyatta has not been able to break Genji’s habit of opening his mouth.

 

“You have no honor!” is the first sentence that Hanzo can completely make out.

 

“Now you wait just a goddamn minute,” McCree tries to interject.

 

“Do not insult me with your words. I have known you longer than my brother has. My support of your interest in him is a great shame to me,” Genji spits. “To think I could have prevented you from harming him…”

 

“Quit your bitchin’, Genji. You’re talking like I murdered him. Last I checked, Hanzo is fine,” McCree points out. He sounds angry and distressed. Hanzo still wants to comfort him.

 

“He’s like a bloody iceberg,” Tracer inserts herself into the conversation. Hanzo is surprised to hear her voice. He wonders if she came on the same transport as his brother. “He wasn’t even bothered by it,” she continues.

 

The room erupts into angry voices all shouting above each other. Everybody seems to be ignoring D.Va’s entreaties to calm down. Hanzo decides that it is the perfect time to announce his presence. They are, after all, fighting about him.

 

The voices die out as soon as he walks into the room. Both his brother and McCree are in their respective, self-righteous stances. Part of him wonders how close they were to blows.

 

“Am I not allowed to be part of the discussion about me?” Hanzo asks with a quirk of his eyebrow.

 

Surprisingly, it is McCree who speaks up with, “If you'd kindly tell your brother to get off my case, it’d be much appreciated. He seems to think the two of us ain’t adults who can handle this on our own.”

 

“I cannot tell him something that is not true,” Hanzo says.

 

“Excuse me?” McCree asks. Of course he asks.

 

Hanzo shakes his head. “I believe that you catch my meaning and do not need clarification.”

 

“Well I don’t,” Tracer boldly says.

 

McCree clears his throat. He looks slightly abashed. “He means that I haven’t been acting with much maturity.”

 

Tracer looks offended on McCree’s behalf. She is a good friend, or so Hanzo has been told. “That’s a nasty thing to say given your general attitude,” she says with an insulting wave of her hand.

 

“Not all people feel the need to show their inner turmoil to all who see them,” Hanzo snaps at her. There is silence in the room after he speaks. Hanzo decides that the needs of his stomach are no longer important. He turns on his heel and stalks away. If they wish to speak of him, he does not need to hear it.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Life is tense for several days. D.Va goes out of her way to be nice to him. McCree puts even more effort into avoiding him. Bastion makes sad, inquiring bleeps in his direction, and Hanzo has had to avoid Mercy on three separate occasions. The good doctor seems to think he needs to talk to somebody who can use actual words.

 

What Hanzo wants is to be left alone. He sees the humor in the fact that McCree is the only one giving him what he desires. Even though McCree is likely doing it for selfish reasons, Hanzo is grateful that at least one member of the team is leaving him alone.

 

Then McCree is given a temporary assignment elsewhere. At his departure, Hanzo feels a phantom pain of longing. It is like his body remembers that he used to be sad about being separated from McCree. Hanzo will not allow himself to consider the notion that he actually misses his former lover.

 

Without their resident cowboy, the remaining team does little. They have been down a member for a while. Winston doesn’t like to run a group with less than six members. Cutting their five down to four has effectively grounded them. As Hanzo understands it, the policy is left over from the glory days of Overwatch.

 

Jack Morrison’s name is a hallowed one. Even Hanzo’s father had respected it. That the remnants of Overwatch revere it is not a surprise. That they hold on to the man’s processes is also not shocking.

 

The assassin that still lives inside of Hanzo itches at the lack of combat. He has spent many years on his own and has not died from lack of backup. He grows tired of waiting. There is little to do save training simulations.

 

Try though he may, he cannot beat McCree’s scores on certain objectives.  Even though he has memorized the patterns, his bow is not competition for McCree’s gun. If McCree was any other person, Hanzo is certain he would have triumphed over him by now. But McCree is incredibly good. His competency is part of what attracted Hanzo to him in the first place.

 

Hanzo grunts in irritation. It seems he cannot escape thoughts of McCree no matter where he goes or what he does. Only in battle is there sufficient distraction. Getting over McCree would be easier, he thinks, if he was no longer in love with him. The man is like a splinter that had gone too deep to pull out. Hanzo hates that he still makes him feel.

 

There is a feeling almost like relief when there is Talon activity near the base he is stationed at. Mercy spends hours calling other members of the team, searching for anyone willing to help. In the end, Soldier 76 agrees to come. The man is a mystery. He claims independence and his own code of conduct, yet always comes when he is called.

 

For a man who talks like he is a vigilante, he is more paranoid about rule following and mission logging than any of the veteran Overwatch members are. Hanzo supposes it is the soldier part of his codename that drives him. Once accustomed to rigid rules, it is hard to break the habit of them. If anyone could understand this, it is Hanzo.

 

Once the man arrives at base, the team preps to leave. They are again faced with a team of five, but waiting any longer risks growth in the number of their enemies. Talon is not an organization to be trifled with.

 

The mission is brutal. Not ten minutes in, and Hanzo’s arms begin to ache. He ignores the pain. Faltering in battle has never been an option. His father would not allow it when he was a young student, and he will not allow it now.

 

D.Va’s mech starts sparking. Soldier 76 has thrown down so many biotic fields that he has none left hanging from his utility belt. Mercy’s white Valkyrie suit is smudged and scratched with dirt and blood. Bastion’s never ending turret rounds have started to make Hanzo’s ears ring with their loudness.

 

They work for over an hour, slowly backing the Talon agents into a corner. It is a testament to the quality of people in Overwatch that they do not begin to flag. Despite no longer being in his prime, Soldier 76 moves as quickly as he had when they were fresh into battle.

 

The blisters on Hanzo’s fingers are minor pricks of pain that barely register. His body thrums with both energy and agony. The dragons are restless under his skin. It is dangerous to release them as much as he has. The Shimada family has lost more than one of its members to the call of the dragons.

 

But there is no choice. Every battle won is a step closer to redemption. Honor will not erase the guilt of his past, but it will soothe him. Hanzo is not his brother, calmed by the teachings of holy omnics. He never will be. Bloodshed is his calling, and he must be ever careful to keep himself away from the edge of pure destruction.

 

When he sees Soldier 76 fly backwards from the force of a concussive missile, Hanzo lets out a yell. He does not understand his own voice as the dragons rise from him again. In that moment, there is only victory or defeat, and he will not allow defeat to be an option.

 

There are screams. There are always screams when he uses the sacred power of his family. Hanzo ignores them. Instead, he focuses on picking off all the agents who remain. He protects Mercy as she flies in, aiding their fallen comrade.  

 

“Protect me!” she orders as she settles by their fallen ally.

 

Hanzo clambers down from his perch to better position himself. In the background, he can hear sirens blaring. They are a sure sign of the local government taking notice of their fight. Despite the good they do in the world, the new Overwatch is an illegal operation. Talon is not their only foe.

 

“We need to evacuate,” Mercy says. She relays the order over the coms a second later. Being the most senior member, she is technically in charge of this particular operation despite being a medic who is not partial towards violence.

 

Still, she knows well enough that some fights need to be fought. She also knows, perhaps better than most, that there are some fights that are best left to another day. Hanzo is not going to argue with her because he thirsts for blood. He is not foolish.

 

They move quickly, Mercy dragging Soldier 76 along the ground. Hanzo has sympathy for the additional bruises their healer will cause the man, but it is better than the alternative. They need to escape quickly. D.Va is already firing up the engines of the transport, and they cannot wait for Bastion to make his way over to them.

 

Finally, they make it to the transport. Once inside it, Hanzo drops his bow and helps Mercy move her patient onto the nearby table. The man’s visor is smashed and his face plate dented. His breath is strained. Hanzo is no doctor, but he knows many ways to suffocate another. Shimada assassins are not limited by bows or swords.

 

As such, he knows that the mask that normally saves and protects Soldier 76 is now harming him. Mercy is busy using her technology to heal the wounds to Soldier’s abdomen. Soldier is touchy about his mask, growls at their healers to leave it alone at all costs.

 

Hanzo has never been sworn to this privacy, but he knows about it. There is dishonor in disregarding a man’s wishes. It is a weakness in Hanzo’s character that he has never been able to handle taking the honorable path. When he thought he killed his brother, he ran away. Now, he cannot stand to see Soldier 76 die for the sake of his pride.

 

Mercy is focused on other tasks, so there is no gentle hand reaching out to stop Hanzo’s. He has studied the old soldier’s profile many times while waiting for enemies to come. The mechanisms that release his faceguard are well known to him. He removes the mask with ease.

 

Though he has never officially met the man whose face greets him, Hanzo knows him on sight. He wonders if there is anybody in the world who would not recognize Jack Morrison, plastered as he was on every news station for twenty years. That he is alive is a bit of a shock.

 

A soft gasp comes from Mercy’s mouth, and Hanzo slides his eyes away from Morrison’s face to hers. He knows that she has seen what he has. There is bewilderment in her eyes and tears as well. She is shocked by the identity of the man she has been working to save.

 

Part of Hanzo wonders that she had no suspicion as to the man’s identity. Surely, after working so closely with somebody for so long, she could not have forgotten all of his mannerisms. He looks away, grabs some items from the medical supply containers strapped to the wall. Not all people have seen their loved ones change, he reminds himself. They may have never expected a man as legendary as Jack Morrison to become something else.

 

Mercy mumbles a distracted, “Thank you,” as he pushes a syringe into her hands. As miraculous as her technology is, Soldier 76 will be in a world of hurt when he wakes. Hanzo has seen her preemptively give pain medication to others before.

 

Despite what others in the group may believe, Hanzo knows that Soldier 76 is just like the rest of them.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

There is a shameful comfort that Hanzo takes in the reemergence of Jack Morrison. All of Overwatch is consumed with the revelation of Soldier 76’s identity. They no longer gossip about Hanzo and McCree’s ill-fated romance.

 

Instead, the base is swarmed with members. There are many tears. There are even more arguments that break out. Every person who knew Jack before seems to be hurt, angry, and relieved that their beloved Strike Commander Morrison is still among the living. Reinhardt takes to hugging everyone who comes across his path to express his joy.

 

Hanzo takes to climbing walls and hiding in the shadows to avoid being crushed in those arms. Once was quite enough. There is only so far that his acceptance of other cultures can stretch. He fears that he will shoot Reinhardt if he tries such a demonstration again.

 

From his chosen vantage point, Hanzo observes many things. The primary thing that he notices is the way all the attention begins to weigh on Morrison. The man is broken. Hanzo recognizes the guilt hidden behind Morrison’s military façade. How could he not? That feeling has plagued him ever since he almost killed his brother.

 

So when he spots Morrison hiding out in a small alcove that overlooks a small “garden” of potted plants, he politely turns to walk in the other direction. Peace and quiet is a rare opportunity when most of one’s teammates are sociable and perpetually loud. It is just Hanzo’s fortune that he almost walks into McCree.

 

“Whoa there,” McCree drawls.

 

For a second their eyes meet. McCree has beautiful eyes. Hanzo has always thought so. Even now, it is difficult for him to look away from them. Thankfully, McCree is not as intense in his need to stare and breaks their gaze.

 

“Lookin’ for Jack,” McCree explains, “you seen him?”

 

“No,” Hanzo lies.

 

“Really?” McCree questions. He is better at spotting Hanzo’s tells than even Genji is, says it comes from playing too many rounds of poker.

 

“I have been seeking solitude,” Hanzo says, “I have been granted my quest until now.” He makes certain to put a look of disdain on his face to inform McCree that he is intruding.

 

“Sorry,” the other man mumbles. The clink of his spurs on the hallway is loud and quick as he beats a hasty retreat.

 

“You’re a scary son of a bitch; you know that?” Jack’s voice echoes as soon as McCree is out of hearing range.

 

“Solitude is something they should better learn to honor,” Hanzo replies.

 

Jack laughs, rough voice giving the sound a menacing edge. “You picked the wrong boyfriend for solitude. Jesse is a clinger, always has been. Poor Gabe thought he was recruiting a fellow anti-social asshole, not a busybody who likes potlucks and putting his nose in everybody’s business.” There is a hint of nostalgia in his voice that makes Hanzo move towards him instead of saying his farewells and leaving the man in peace.

 

“He is no longer my boyfriend,” Hanzo says.

 

Jack grunts like he isn’t as sure of that fact as Hanzo is, but he doesn’t pursue the topic. Instead he says, “They want me to take over. I can see it in their eyes, you know? Winston is great. He’s smart and more caring than I am. But he’s a scientist, not a soldier.”

 

“It is a great honor to be asked to lead a strong group of people,” Hanzo offers, “but I have no desire to return to my home and claim my clan’s leadership. There is also honor in following the right path for one’s personal journey.”

 

“I wish that was true for me,” Jack sighs. “I miss command. I miss making a good team great. I miss all of it, but I almost got all of them killed. They don’t seem to understand that I’m not good for them. I’m not the man I used to be.”

 

There is silence for a moment or two before Hanzo offers, “Perhaps you should see through their eyes then.”

 

Jack snorts in response.

 

“You are not the same man,” Hanzo concedes, “but this is not the same Overwatch. I do not think that you are so far removed from caring as you would like to be.”

 

“Any of them ever tell you that you’re an asshole?” Jack asks, though the tone is closer to amiable than irritated.

 

“I was most often found near McCree. He is loud,” Hanzo points out.

 

“Fair enough,” Jack says, “he might not be an anti-social asshole, but he’s still an asshole. Kind of hard to outshine him.”

 

“Indeed,” Hanzo agrees. He does not want the conversation to linger over McCree, so he decides to say his farewells. “It grows late. I will leave you to your contemplations.”

 

“Wait a second,” Jack orders as Hanzo moves to walk away. “Brought these with me when I came,” he says as he walks over and pushes a revolver and ID chip into Hanzo’s hands. “You’re never going to beat McCree in an actual gun fight. Never going to beat him with an arrow in a simulation either, but I think you might get closer to knocking him off his high score pedestal with the right weapon.”

 

Hanzo holds up the ID chip. “And what is this for?”

 

Something like a smile tugs at Jack’s lips. “I figured it’d get to him more if he didn’t know for sure who dethroned him.”

 

“Ah,” Hanzo says as he stares down at the gifts. Jack walks back to where he had been standing before.

 

“For what it is worth, I think it is untrue that you do not care,” Hanzo says.

 

Jack turns to look at him. He raises a questioning eyebrow.

 

“I think that you care as much as you ever did,” Hanzo informs him, “and that you wish you did not.” He turns and walks away before Jack can form a reply. If there is one thing that Hanzo’s mother taught him that his father did not, it is when and how to leave a conversation.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When word spreads that Winston has talked Jack into being field commander, Hanzo is not surprised. If anything, he is happy for the man. Accepting parts of oneself can be difficult. Of this, Hanzo is very aware.

 

Unlike most of the other members, Hanzo relishes the sudden influx of new training assignments sent his way. The never ending cycle of learning is an easy one for him. One must be a student before one can become a master.

 

Genji is the one who would throw his studies away when they were boys. It is something of a relief when he calls Hanzo in the middle of the night to complain about all the new battle formations Jack has demanded they learn. Even Zenyatta’s teachings cannot change such a steadfast part of Genji’s character.

 

 _“You have already learned them, haven’t you?”_ Genji stops in the middle of his rant to say rather than ask.

 

 _“I have more time on my hands than you do,”_ Hanzo tries to placate his brother.  _“I do not have much to do between missions these days.”_

 

Genji laughs. _“You do not need to lie to me, brother. You can’t have spent that much time fucking McCree.”_

 

Hanzo’s eyes widen and his skin flushes. Genji’s laugh grows stronger, and Hanzo regrets that he accepted a video call instead of simply a voice one. _“I curse the day the spirits granted my father a second son,”_ he grumbles even though he cannot hide the smile curling on his lips. Hearing his brother laugh again is something he is willing to be made a fool for.

 

Genji’s laughter dies out, and the next words from him are kinder. _“Are you doing alright?”_ he asks.

 

 _“It is easier now,”_ Hanzo tells him. It is the truth. After so long, he thinks that his heart is no longer broken.

 

 _“But?”_ Genji prompts.

 

 _“But I fear that while I am no longer heartbroken, I still love him,”_ Hanzo admits. It is difficult to say. Were it not for the late hour, he would not even admit as much to his brother. But his sense of propriety has somewhat shifted after being forcibly exposed to so many people who feel the need to constantly share their feelings.

 

 _“Ah,”_ Genji says. _“I confess that I do not understand his appeal. Unless, of course, it is for his… aim.”_

 

This time, Hanzo’s face turns scarlet. He spits, sputters and huffs in indignation. Genji laughs, greatly amused by his own joke. Hanzo cannot bring himself to yell at his brother. This is the Genji that he knew when they were young. Not peaceful, angry, or defiant, but full of mischief.

 

 _“Goodnight, Genji,”_ Hanzo interjects as much sternness as he can into his voice. His tone only makes Genji laugh harder. If his body was still flesh and bone, Hanzo knows it would be shaking. Tears of mirth might even be gathering at his eyes.

 

The metal mask keeps Hanzo from seeing Genji’s features. But his imagination has no problem conjuring them in his mind’s eye.

 

 _“Goodnight, Brother,”_ Genji replies and the screen flickers to dark as he ends the call.

 

Hanzo stares into the darkness of the room before crawling into his bed. It still feels empty even though he can now count the time in months rather than days and weeks. He wonders not when he will stop longing for McCree but if.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

There is blood and dirt. Hanzo’s ears ring from the deafening sound of gunfire and explosions. Chaos reigns in the battlefield. It is clear that a trap had been set for them. There are far too many Talon agents swarming about.

 

His quiver is empty of arrows. His bow is covered in blood from using it as a melee weapon. Such a use is less than ideal, but there is no other choice. They are spread too far for him to wait for assistance.

 

If not for the new tactics Soldier 76 had made them learn, the team would be dead already. The Talon agents are moving in ways meant to counter their usual maneuvers. The black figure that teleports himself around the area is doing better than his comrades at adapting to their new strategies. He is the one who managed to shoot Lúcio at point blank range.

 

Without Lúcio’s support, they have nothing to keep them going. Soldier 76 calls for a retreat, and Hanzo desperately fights to get through the line of agents between him and their aircraft. By the time he breaks through, D.Va already has the engines on the craft warming. Soldier 76 is dragging Lúcio towards the ramp. Bastion is firing away at the agents trying to reach them.

 

“Where the hell is McCree?” Soldier 76 yells as Hanzo rushes over to help him move Lúcio into the plane more quickly. Guilt is etched all over the older man’s face. It is only visible because his facemask has been torn away earlier in the fight. He is the one who talked Lúcio into joining the day’s operation.

 

Originally, they had been without medical support. Mercy had gone off to assist another team. Lúcio had only been nearby because of a concert. The seeming simplicity of the mission had made him fit it into his schedule. Jack had _promised_ that it would be simple.

 

“Ain’t gonna make it,” McCree’s voice crackles through their earpieces. He sounds exhausted. Worse, he sounds like he is in a great deal of pain.

 

“Bullshit,” Soldier 76 snaps out. The guilt on his face clears away as he focuses on a different problem. “I’ve seen you drag your ass through worse than this.”

 

“Maybe so,” McCree pauses to cough, “but I’m in a real bad way, Jack. You come after me; you’ll just be committing suicide. Get your asses out of here while there’s still time.”

 

Calling Soldier 76 by his real name instead of his codename is a bad sign. Hanzo knows a goodbye when he hears one. The look on Soldier 76’s face says he knows it too.

 

Their leader pauses for a second. “Copy that,” he says softly. “The rest of you get on the carrier. Don’t need anybody else dying on my watch.”

 

Hanzo knows the order is logical. By his estimates, McCree is too far behind enemy lines to safely reach. They are wounded and out gunned. The sacrifice of one man to save the rest of the group is the most acceptable solution. McCree’s death would be an honorable sacrifice.

 

But Hanzo knows that Talon might not kill McCree. He has faced down the woman they call Widowmaker. He knows she was once a beloved friend. The thought of McCree’s death saddens him. The thought of having to battle a monster wearing his face is an unbearable one.

 

Soldier 76 catches Hanzo’s eyes. “Don’t you do it,” he snaps the order as if McCree’s death won’t tear at his soul. He is a good man, a good leader. He is willing to sacrifice anything for the good of his team.

 

Hanzo thinks that this is the quality he lacks. This is why he no longer leads the Shimada clan. He is unable to separate his heart from his actions. Genji’s death still weighs upon him even though his brother still breathes. He cannot allow McCree to face his fate alone.

 

Encumbered as he is by Lúcio’s weight, Soldier 76 cannot reach out to stop Hanzo from leaving. Bastion is too consumed with providing cover fire to even notice.

 

“Hanzo, get your ass back here,” Soldier 76 yells through the earpiece.

 

The words are easily ignored. Having been trained by the best masters his father could afford, Hanzo is used to dismissing distracting noises. He focuses on scaling walls and dodging around the rubble of the battlefield. He uses what cover he can find, hoping that the enemy does not spot him.

 

He heads towards the last location that he remembers seeing McCree at. There is a worrying lack of noise across the communication channel from him. Hanzo prays that something happened to his earpiece or that he is merely unconscious instead of dead.

 

There is a building near where McCree was last seen. Part of it is collapsed, still smoking from what munitions took it out. There are three people poking around it, looking for something. Hanzo snaps two of their necks before they notice him. The third ends up impaled on a section of Hanzo’s now broken bow.

 

“Goddamn,” McCree wheezes. He is hidden in a corner. His prosthetic arm is mangled and sparking. His serape is serving as a makeshift tourniquet around his left thigh, but Hanzo can still see blood seeping through it. His revolver is clasped loosely in his hand, but his good arm is also bleeding. Hanzo doubts that he can manage to shoot it let alone aim it.

 

“Can you stand?” Hanzo asks as he comes over.

 

“Negative on that one,” McCree informs him. He follows the statement up with a chiding, “Shouldn’t have come after me.”

 

Hanzo ignores the chastisement. “Do you have any bullets left?” he asks.

 

“Sure. Not that they’ll do much good.”

 

Hanzo takes the gun out of McCree’s hand and loads the empty chambers. “We must make haste. The carrier will not wait much longer.”

 

“Shouldn’t wait for us at all,” McCree grouses.

 

“They are very loyal,” Hanzo replies as he crouches before McCree. Thankfully, McCree doesn’t protest being tossed over Hanzo’s shoulder into a fireman’s carry. Hanzo’s muscles _do_ protest the weight they are forced to carry. McCree is larger than he is and wearing body armor.

 

 

Ignoring the weakness of his body, Hanzo sets off at as fast a pace as he is able. He cannot go back on the same path he came. There is no way to carry McCree and scale a wall, so he settles for shooting at his enemies.

 

It is not like target practice at all. McCree’s gun has more kickback than the one that Hanzo used to defeat his high score. Human and omnic enemies are not as predictable as computer controlled dummies. Still, he can at least fire the gun with one hand. In this situation, it is better than his bow.

 

The battle has taken a toll on Hanzo. The dragons lay quiet. They do not stir, so he cannot use his family’s power against those trying to keep him from reaching the carrier. Reloading the revolver is also a difficult prospect with one hand, but he does his best. If they think he will make the fight easy, they are gravely mistaken.

 

“I’ve got eyes on you,” the words actually penetrate Hanzo’s brain. They stand apart from the reprimands that Soldier 76 has been yelling at him. Seconds later the fire of a pulse rifle registers.

 

“Dammit, Jack. Not you too,” McCree complains as a familiar white haired head appears at their side.

 

“Seems I have two idiots on my team who don’t know how to retreat like good soldiers,” Soldier 76 grouses. “Can’t let both of you die. It’d be a waste of good assets. Now get a move on,” he orders gruffly.

 

Hanzo does not reply. He saves his breath for the exertion of continuing to walk with the burden of McCree’s weight. They move faster with Soldier 76’s support. Even with that, the number of enemies increases. They are close to being overrun.

 

By the time they get to the carrier, it is hovering off the ground. Bastion is stomping on the hands of Talon agents trying to crawl their way into the craft. Soldier 76 launches himself onto the platform, and turns around to drag McCree off Hanzo’s shoulder and into the craft.

 

Strange hands paw at Hanzo, a bullet barely misses him and lodges itself into the hull of the aircraft. He uses the last of his strength to clamber inside, ending up slumped next to Lúcio’s unconscious body. D.Va guns the engines as soon as they are all inside, not bothering to wait for the doors to close. There are screams as Bastion breaks the grips of the last Talon agents trying to get into their ship, sending them plummeting to their deaths.

 

“Woo woo woo wee woo,” Bastion chirps chidingly as his ever present bird flutters around and chirps along with him.

 

Hanso would be insulted, be he knows that Bastion is right.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They break both Lúcio and McCree out of their gear and take them to a local hospital. Their nearest medic is too far away to risk waiting for. The injuries to the rest of the team can be treated with their remaining stock of biotic fields, but the damage to Lúcio and McCree is too severe.

 

Their story is that a deranged group of fans attacked Lúcio. McCree is supposedly a different fan who was caught in the crossfire while asking for an autograph. Thankfully, the hospital staff are too star struck to notice McCree’s resemblance to his wanted poster.

 

Mr. Walters – as McCree’s fake ID proclaims him to be – is put in a significantly smaller and shabbier recovery room than music sensation Lúcio Correia dos Santos. By the time the evening news comes on, all that social media can talk about is how their beloved Lúcio was attacked. #fansnotfoes starts trending. Winston has to hack a few databases to alter the picture McCree some hospital employee heartlessly posted, so nobody comes to arrest him.

 

If not for the necessity of it all, Hanzo might feel bad about the amount of falsification they are engaging in to cover their tracks. It is a strange sensation given that he was raised as the heir to a yakuza clan. Obscuration is a fact when one deals with the unsavory things in life.

 

Hanzo is so tired when he returns to his room that he almost does not answer the door when it chimes. His entire body aches. His hair is wet. He is not fit company.

 

Still, he forces himself to rise because he knows who is on the other side of the door. Jack Morrison’s neutral face greets him. Hanzo lets him inside. He would prefer a more formal setting for a reprimand, expected Morrison to prefer it as well.

 

“Sit down, Hanzo,” Jack orders.

 

“I would prefer to remain standing,” Hanzo tells him. “I do not need to have the repercussions of my actions softened for me.”

 

Jack’s expression softens. He shakes his head. “I’m not here to yell at you.”

 

“You’re not?” Hanzo asks. His forehead creased in confusion.

 

Jack sighs. He leans against the edge of Hanzo’s dresser and crosses his arms over his chest. For a moment, he appears lost in thought before saying, “I’ve been in love a few times, Kid. Only one person I would’ve risked my life and the lives of the rest of my team for. Take some advice from an old man, don’t let him go. You’ll regret it.”

 

“Excuse me?” Hanzo huffs.

 

“I mean it,” Jack insists. His eyes pin Hanzo’s. “Bury the hatchet. Extend an olive branch. Wave a white flag. You love him that damned much; you do something about it before it’s too late. I don’t pretend to know what a man like you sees in Jesse McCree. I just know that I’d do anything to have my one person back, and I don’t want you two idiots to end up in the same boat.”

 

Jack pushes to his feet and walks out Hanzo’s door.

 

It is ungracious, but Hanzo wonders how Morrison expects him to sleep after a lecture like that.


	2. Chapter 2

A night of restless sleep leaves Hanzo cranky the next morning. The idea of reconciling with McCree makes him part hope and part terror. What is to say that McCree wants him back? How can he be sure that what drove them apart before will not come between them again? Is it not foolish to still love him when their past issues are not resolved? It is a maddening cycle of thoughts.

 

But he cannot deny that he wants to be with McCree again. His desire for reconciliation consumes him. The force of it is ridiculous. Hanzo feels like one of the young women who screams at Lúcio during his concerts. Infatuation in a man of his age is embarrassing.

 

Still, he is forced to admit that Jack’s evaluation of his feelings is true. In his life, he has not loved any other the way that he loves McCree. Sakiko’s glossy hair is nothing in comparison to the unkempt, shaggy, brown mess that McCree keeps upon his head.

 

In the face of such a revelation, Hanzo realizes that he must be the one to bend. McCree is not one to mend fences. Neither is Hanzo, but he will try.

 

So Hanzo lets his hair out of the binding he normally keeps it in. He wriggles into a Henley and a pair of blue jeans to make himself look as if he is a normal citizen. While not as recognizable as McCree, he is still recognizable enough to cause trouble should the wrong pair of eyes rest themselves upon him. It is best to blend in when possible.

 

Once he is finished making himself look as normal as possible, Hanzo heads into town. He stops at a small supermarket and walks directly back to the freezer section. His hand hesitates over the carton he knows he needs to purchase. The thought of what is inside the container makes his lip curl in disgust, but he forces his fingers to grasp it anyway.

 

He purchases the item and quickly walks the remaining distance to the hospital. Instead of going in through the front entrance, he glances around and carefully scales the wall until he reaches the window of McCree’s room. Thankfully, the sun is almost completely down, and the wall is already cast in shadow. The likelihood of being seen is minimal.

 

“I’ll warn ya right now that I’m armed,” McCree’s voice greets him as soon as he slides the window open.

 

Hanzo snorts and pushes his way inside. “I have it on good authority that you’re not,” he says as he steps inside the room and closes the window behind him.

 

McCree visibly relaxes. “Dammit, Hanzo. I was gonna chuck a water pitcher at you.”

 

“I am certain the combination of ice water and plastic would have been most shocking,” Hanzo says as he walks over to McCree’s bedside, “but I doubt you would have hit me.”

 

“Mock a man’s aim while he’s down,” McCree grumbles.

 

Hanzo ignores him in favor of pulling a chair closer. He sits down and opens the small bag he has been carrying his disgusting, frozen treasure around in. “I have brought you a get well present,” he announces as he sets the container down on McCree’s tray.

 

McCree stares at the container for a few seconds. “If I weren’t so drugged up and possibly hallucinating, I’d swear that’s ice cream.”

 

“It is,” Hanzo confirms.

 

“Strawberry ice cream,” McCree says, almost dazed.

 

“Yes,” Hanzo replies though he cannot keep a look of distaste from taking over his face.

 

“But you hate strawberries. You wouldn’t even kiss me if I’d been eating them,” McCree protests.

 

Hanzo shifts uncomfortably. “They are vile, but you have an unreasonable fondness for them.”

 

“You keep saying things like that, you’re liable to give me some wrong ideas,” McCree says.

 

The words make Hanzo blush, and his breath stutter for a second. For a moment, he is tempted to speak seriously of their relationship. Wisdom holds his tongue.

 

McCree’s eyes are glassy, slightly unfocused from the medications he is on. His flesh arm is held immobile by cast and sling. His prosthetic one is missing entirely. Hanzo cannot see his injured leg, but logic tells him it is in no better condition than McCree’s arms. He is damaged and in no condition to consent to a rekindling of their relationship.

 

“You okay? I was just kidding with ya,” McCree says.

 

“I am fine. I was thinking of your injuries,” Hanzo half-lies.

 

McCree grimaces. “Jack yelled at you pretty good, huh?”

 

Before Hanzo can correct him, McCree keeps speaking. “I want you to know that I appreciate what you did for me out there. Truth be told, I didn’t want to die or end up like Amelie. Those goons came for me, and I thought for sure I was a goner. I was scared. Then you came along like some badass ninja, saving my hide and… I’m grateful to ya.”

 

“You do not have to thank me,” Hanzo tells him.

 

“Pretty sure you’re wrong about that.”

 

“Then we shall disagree on the subject.” Hanzo shifts uncomfortably. “Enough about the battle, how are you feeling?” he asks, hoping that McCree will not push the subject any further.

 

“Well, they ain’t no Overwatch docs; I can tell you that. Would be outta here already if Ziegler was in charge. Worst part is, I can’t even feed myself proper until they fix something,” McCree grumbles, but Hanzo can see the faint blush of embarrassment that lights his cheeks. McCree hates to admit weakness.

 

“So you admit that your threats of violence were empty?” Hanzo teases, hoping to cajole him out of his discomfort.

 

McCree smiles. “Well, I couldn’t exactly threaten you with hitting the call button for a nurse, could I?”

 

Hanzo cannot help but smile. It _is_ a ridiculous thought.

 

McCree’s eyes widen just a fraction. “Look at that,” he says almost to himself. “You’re smilin’. It’s like I woke up in some alternate universe where I didn’t chase you away.”

 

“Don’t speak nonsense,” Hanzo chides. McCree looks soft and vulnerable lying in his hospital bed, speaking of fairy tales. It makes Hanzo want to kiss him, and he cannot do that. “Your ice cream is melting,” he points out instead. Offering a treat is as good a substitute to a kiss as is available at the moment.

 

“Probably for the best,” McCree pouts, “gonna have to eat it through a straw anyway. Don’t know how they start up that ridiculous feeding robot they got. Just put it here by my water, so I can be undignified once you’re gone.”

 

Hanzo shakes his head and pulls a spoon out of the sack that he still held on his lap. “You will do no such thing.”

 

“I just told you… No. Hanzo, a man has to have his pride,” McCree says.

 

“I fail to see how using a straw to eat a food that is supposed to be frozen is less damaging to your pride. And besides that, you will never get those ‘real pieces of strawberry’ through a straw. To any sane man, this would be a blessing. But you have told me they are the ‘best part’ of this abomination that calls itself a dessert, so I presume you are not a sane man,” Hanzo argues.

 

“Yeah, but I ain’t no baby,” McCree says as he casts a longing look at the ice cream container.

 

“That is debatable,” Hanzo says under his breath.

 

“Pardon?” McCree asks.

 

Hanzo thinks it unfair that a man who has spent so many years firing a revolver without hearing protection should be able to hear as well as McCree does. “The wonders of modern medicine,” as Dr. Ziegler would say, make Hanzo’s life difficult at times.

 

“I said that there is nobody here to see us,” Hanzo tells him. “Even if the subject should arise in conversation, it would only be your word against mine.”

 

“But you’re a terrible liar,” McCree argues. “Everybody would know that you’re telling the truth because you’re so bad at lying.”

 

“Now you are just arguing for the sake of an argument,” Hanzo huffs, “and I am not a horrible liar. You are just more perceptive of such things.”

 

“Now there you go again,” McCree complains.

 

 He does not elaborate on what Hanzo is supposedly going again on, so Hanzo dismisses the comment. Instead he pops the lid off the ice cream container and sticks the spoon inside. It is soft except for around the center, and it is a lurid pink color that Hanzo is certain he will have nightmares about at some point.

 

“Do you want some? Or shall I eat it myself?” Hanzo asks with as serious a tone as he can manage.

 

As expected, it makes McCree laugh. “I suppose I can’t let it go to waste,” he relents.

 

“A good choice,” Hanzo agrees as he brings the spoon to McCree’s mouth. He ceases any banter as he carefully spoons the treat into his former lover’s mouth. He knows that it would be unwelcome and only serve to highlight the awkwardness of their situation.

 

This is not the first time that he has fed another person. He has memories of helping his mother feed Genji when he was small and unable to do more than smash his food with tiny fists. Hanzo does not like to think about the messes his brother caused.

 

He also can remember helping his father struggle to eat on his death bed. The once proud leader of the Shimada clan had slowly begun to lose interest in his favorite foods. Then he began to lack the strength to bring the food to his mouth at all. Each day he grew weaker until he could no longer even swallow water, clinging to Hanzo’s hand like a frightened child while Genji gallivanted around Hanamura uncaring and reckless.

 

The current situation is very different from either of those.

 

The man he is feeding knows how to swallow. He is not struggling to eat. Though he is injured, he is not ill.  There is no sickness robbing him of his appetite or strength.

 

As Hanzo wipes away a stray trickle of ice cream that had dripped from the spoon onto McCree’s chin, he tries not to think about how intimate the touch is. He has done the same for family members. There should be neither shame nor guilt for assisting a fellow teammate.

 

But Hanzo knows that McCree is not _just_ a teammate. Though they are socially separated, Hanzo is well aware that his heart is more stubborn than his mind. It kicks up its pace as his fingers touch McCree’s face. His thumb wants to stroke over the lips that are so close by.

 

There is little to do but completely ignore the desire. The last thing that Hanzo wants is for McCree to get the idea that he has a kink for the situation. His life would be nothing but strawberry ice cream then, and it would be a tortured existence.

 

After a little while, a machine kicks on nearby. The IV going into McCree’s flesh arm turns color as something is injected into the fluid being fed into him.

 

“Meds,” McCree explains when he notice’s Hanzo’s gaze focusing on the tubing. “Don’t worry, it isn’t poison. At least, I don’t think it’s poison, but what do I know? I’ve been having one awesome acid trip today.”

 

“I’m not a hallucination,” Hanzo feels compelled to point out.

 

“Hmm,” McCree’s answer sounds like he might not agree with Hanzo’s assessment. His eyes flutter and he lets out a little hum that means he is about to fall asleep. Usually he only makes the noise when he’s post coital.

 

Staying to watch a teammate sleep is inappropriate, so Hanzo forces himself to his feet. He packs up the ice cream and sneaks back out the window. When he arrives back at the base, he hides the carton at the far back of the freezer in hopes that it does not get finished off by somebody with wandering fingers.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The next morning seems to drag on for ages. Hanzo doesn’t want to visit McCree when the hospital is busy. Even beyond getting recognized, he wants to be alone with his ex-lover. Managing a personal conversation with him isn’t something Hanzo wants to do in the presences of medical personnel or other visitors.

 

He tries to waste time by debating if he should bring another gift or not. If he does, it might look like he is trying to buy McCree’s affections. If he doesn’t, there is no pretext for him to be visiting. It is a conundrum that frustrates him and does nothing to ease his mind.

 

Even though he wants to wait for the cover of darkness, Hanzo finds himself changing into non-descript civilian wear as soon as lunch is over. He supposes that he is lovesick. There mere thought of reconciliation has him eager to crawl to McCree’s beside. He wonders at himself for the change. He is normally more stubborn.

 

There is a knock on his bedroom door. Hanzo pulls his hands away from where they were about to let his hair out of its hold and walks over to answer it. He hopes that it is not another mission. Now would be a most inopportune time.

 

“Yes,” he answers tersely before the door is even open.

 

To his surprise, McCree is outside it dressed in an atrocious pair of olive green sweatpants and a tee shirt that looks like it would be two sizes too large for Reinhardt. There is a new prosthetic arm attached to him that he appears to be using to keep himself upright by bracing it on the doorframe. He looks horrible. Hanzo is no doctor, but he knows that McCree shouldn’t be out of bed.

 

“I told you that I was fixin’ to get a crazy idea in my head,” McCree jokes.

 

“You need to rest,” Hanzo tells him. He is worried and does not bother to hide his concern. “Come sit down,” he offers because he isn’t sure that McCree will make it anywhere else. He isn’t even sure McCree can cover the distance to the bed.

 

“No. No, what needs sayin’ deserves sayin’ like a man,” McCree grunts.

 

Irritation wells up inside Hanzo. Machismo is all well and good, but there are times and places where he would gladly burn it to the ground for the frustrations it has caused him. He settles on informing McCree of his opinion with a disapproving snort and a gentle, guiding hand on his shoulder. But McCree doesn’t budge.

 

“Now don’t be difficult, Darlin’,” McCree says with a quirk on his lips. “You know I’m more stubborn than you are.”

 

The words bring a flush to Hanzo’s face that even turning his head away cannot hide.

 

Instead of the gentle teasing Hanzo expects, McCree’s tone is serious when he says, “Look. I think I owe you an apology. I was right hurt when we broke up. I acted like a child throwin’ himself a temper tantrum because he didn’t get his way.”

 

“You do not need to apologize,” Hanzo says. “You need to rest.”

 

“Again with the resting,” McCree says like _Hanzo_ is the one being unreasonable. “Let me finish, okay? Now as I was saying, I was a damn fool. I pretended like you were the one at fault. I knew you’d told me a hundred times in a hundred different ways just how much the way I was actin’ hurt you. But I got defensive, and I ruined a good thing. I ruined us.”

 

There is a look of anguish on McCree’s face that Hanzo wants to wipe away, but he doesn’t. He doubts another interruption, however well intentioned, would be welcome.

 

“I thought I’d chased you off for good. Then you haul ass across a goddamned war zone to save my hide. And I thought, ‘Must not hate me anymore.’ I was good with being… acquaintances. I swear I was. Then yesterday you come bring me strawberry ice cream.”

 

McCree takes a breath. “Daring do and ridiculous rescues I can reason away, but strawberries are mighty personal with you. When I woke up this mornin’, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About us. I thought if I stayed there a minute longer, I might lose my nerve. So once those hacks put this defective piece of crap on me,” he pauses to look pointedly at his arm, “I came straight here.”

 

“Why?” is the only word that Hanzo finds he can speak.

 

“Because, Shimada Hanzo, I want you to take me back. I’d beg if I thought it’d make you consider it, but I’m not sure I’d make it back up off my knees.” McCree looks directly into Hanzo’s eyes for a few moments, no more words coming off his lips.

 

Hanzo feels like he cannot look away. He cannot make himself speak. In truth, he is shocked. There is a part of him that assumed McCree would never apologize, that his pride would never allow him to make amends.

 

“You take your time to think about it,” McCree says softly. His face looks less hopeful than it had a minute before, but not outright rejected. He awkwardly turns and starts shuffling down the hallway. There is a list to his gait that says he is bound to fall over at any second.

 

“Come sit down,” is what Hanzo manages to force past his shock.

 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not,” McCree tells him. “I’m not going to sit there and pressure you into anything.”

 

“What if I said that I will have you back?” Hanzo asks.

 

McCree halts his agonizingly slow shuffle. “You mean that?”

 

“Of course I…”

 

“No,” McCree cuts him off. “I mean, you’re not just saying that because you feel sorry for me and don’t want me to fall on my face.”

 

“I am saying it,” Hanzo steps over to where McCree is standing, “because I am fond of your face and do not want it harmed.”

 

“No kiddin’?” McCree is smiling in a way that would forever mar the tough image he tries to sell to his enemies. “Well, I suppose I can’t deprive you of it then.”

 

Hanzo gently leads McCree back to his bedroom and inside of it. They barely make it to the bed before McCree all but collapses on its surface. “Ow,” he mutters as he tries to get upright.

 

“If you have re-injured yourself, you will not tell Dr. Ziegler where you were when you did it,” Hanzo orders him. The last thing he needs is a rumor about their ‘sexcapades’ - as he has heard Reinhardt call the assignations of his wild youth.

 

“Don’t you worry about that,” McCree promises as he finally rights himself. “One lecture on that subject from Jack was enough to last more than a lifetime.”

 

“I do not know what to say,” Hanzo admits. He holds up a hand when McCree opens his mouth. “I do not want to know the details.”

 

Hanzo sits down on the bed with a great deal more finesse than his no-longer-ex-boyfriend.  The warmth radiating from McCree’s body is familiar. He fights the urge to move closer to him to soak in that heat for himself.

 

“You look so different in those clothes,” McCree breaks the silence.

 

“I wear civilian clothes quite often,” Hanzo reminds him.

 

“Yeah, but those are dress shirts and perfectly ironed slacks,” McCree points out.

 

Hanzo considers his words for a moment before offering, “Father would not have allowed me off grounds if I was not dressed professionally for either war or business. I suppose I have continued the habit.”

 

“I’m not complaining. You look mighty fine no matter what you wear.” McCree’s tone suggests something that his body cannot deliver.

 

“You are hopeless, McCree,” Hanzo muses.

 

“Hey. What happened to ‘Jesse’?” McCree asks. He sounds wounded. Hanzo forgets how sensitive he can be.

 

“Jesse,” he amends, “I have fallen out of the habit of calling you that.”

 

“Well, you should get back in it. Don’t go around calling you ‘Shimada’ all the time, do I?”

 

“No. But I did not pick my call sign as my surname either,” Hanzo points out.

 

“There you go, using logic against me,” Jesse grumbles.

 

Hanzo pats him on the arm consolingly. The action causes a grunt of pain to come out.

 

“Might be past time to take those pain killers they sent with me,” Jesse admits. “Took a long ass time to get discharged. I think what they gave me this morning might be wearing off.”

 

“Did you at least remember to get the prescriptions before leaving the hospital?” Hanzo asks.

 

“I ain’t that stupid. They’re in my pocket,” Jess informs him. His mechanical arm gropes around his thigh for a little bit. “I don’t suppose that you could fetch them for me?”

 

Hanzo lifts a single eyebrow.

 

Jesse rolls his eyes. “That isn’t a line. They’re in my pocket, and this damned thing is shit at fine motor skills.”

 

“If you say so,” Hanzo says as he slowly reaches for the pocket of Jesse’s sweatpants.

 

“Darlin’, I couldn’t get a hard-on right now if I tried,” Jesse promises. “It’s a damn shame too. This isn’t the way I imagined our reunion would go.”

 

Hanzo pulls out the pill bottles and twists off the caps. “Oh? You imagined it?”

 

“In great detail,” Jesse promises. “I was pining something awful. Lena swore she was gonna dump me over one of the cliffs in Gibraltar if I didn’t stop soon.”

 

Hanzo gets up to fetch a glass of water, pill bottles still in his hand. Part of him wants to put them away like he would if they were still living in the same room. He does not want to be presumptuous though. Jesse has expressed a desire to rekindle their relationship, but moving back in together seems like a rash step. He compromises with himself and places the bottles down on top of his dresser.

 

“Damn shame,” Jesse repeats.

 

Hanzo glances over his shoulder and to see him outright staring. The look on his face does not quite have the appearance of a leer, but it is clear that he’s trying to make it appear like one. Despite his practice at it, sometimes McCree is terrible at flirting. In all his anger and angst, Hanzo finds he had forgotten that.

 

“Take your pills,” he orders when he returns with the glass of water.

 

Jesse takes them without complaint which can only mean that he is in enough pain to skip his usual muttering about it. No instant relief seems to happen, but his eyes soon start to blink with drowsiness.

 

“You should lie down,” Hanzo suggests.

 

“You sweet talker, tryin’ to get me in bed already,” Jesse slurs. He is starting to slump as much as he is keeping upright.

 

There will be no getting him back to his own room before he falls asleep, so Hanzo half assists, half drags him until he is lying down on his back. The boots on Jesse’s feet fall to the floor with a dull thud as Hanzo pulls them off. There is no need to remove the rest of his clothing, so Hanzo tugs the blankets out from under Jesse’s body to cover him.

 

The other man is lying so still and breathing so evenly that the sleepy, “Hey now,” that comes out of his mouth when Hanzo moves away is surprising.

 

“Do you need something?” Hanzo asks.

 

“I need you to stay put,” Jesse tells him. “Thought you liked cuddling.”

 

“That is a lie you tell yourself,” Hanzo reminds him. But he finds himself crawling onto the bed alongside Jesse anyway. There are other things he could be doing aside from taking a nap, but he cannot think of any of them at the moment.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The sound of rapid knocking on the door wakes Hanzo up. It takes a moment or two for the meaning of the noise reaches his consciousness. He has not slept so soundly in a long time. The need to be instantly alert is a part of him. Even though he is still groggy, he promises to himself that he will not mention it to Jesse. He may be in love, but he knows better than to feed the man fodder for their arguments.

 

“Hanzo!” Lena’s voice starts calling through the door.

 

It makes Hanzo grit his teeth. Tracer, he reminds himself, is a beloved member of Overwatch. Killing her with his bare hands would be a grave mistake.

 

“What?” he snaps as he yanks the door open. Nobody can prove that he takes pleasure in how she stumbles when the fist she was using to knock hits air instead of his door.

 

“McCree is missing,” she informs him. “Isn’t at the hospital. Isn’t in his room. Isn’t on base period. Get your duds on, and let’s get moving.”

 

Hanzo pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course Jesse is the kind of irresponsible man who forgets to leave notes or inform others where he is going. Of course he is.

 

“Tracer,” he starts to explain the situation to her, but she obviously jumps to a conclusion about what he is trying to say.

 

“Geeze. I know you hate the guy, but we’re a team! You can’t just ignore him because of some vendetta,” she crosses her arms over her chest and huffs.

 

Hanzo sighs and decides he is done with words for the day. He steps backwards and gestures into the room, inviting her to look. Thankfully, she does.

 

Her mouth forms into a little ‘O’ before she has the temerity to make finger guns at Hanzo. “I gotcha,” she says, suddenly all smiles. She gives Hanzo what he thinks is a good natured punch in the shoulder.

 

Then she hooks a thumb over her shoulder, pointing behind her. “I’ll just go call off the alarm, yeah?”

 

“That would be for the best,” Hanzo agrees.

 

“No kidding,” she says before adding, “I was getting tired of being mad at you. It’s exhausting.”

 

Hanzo desperately wants to inform her that _she_ is exhausting, but he doesn’t. He is not a child. He also is more interested in returning to his nap than he is in starting a new feud with her.

 

“Bye now. You loves take care.” With that, she zips down the hallway.

 

Hanzo shuts the door and allows himself one, heartfelt sigh before turning around to face the bed.

 

Jesse’s open eyes and stupid grin greet him. “I’m glad y’all made up.”

 

“She is a menace,” Hanzo informs him.

 

Jesse laughs. “Lena’s loyal as a hound dog. Can’t blame her for that.”

 

“You say that as if you’ve ever owned a hound dog,” Hanzo grumbles as he drags himself back onto the bed.

 

“And you have?” Jesse asks.

 

“Mmm. Father had her imported in some sort of bet. I forget the details. She was very lazy unless she was trailing something. Not like Lena at all,” Hanzo tells him.

 

“Oh yeah? What was her name?”

 

“Ichigo,” Hanzo tells him.

 

“Ichigo?” Jesse’s amusement is obvious.

 

“Hush. It is a very popular name for pets in Japan,” Hanzo haughtily informs him, or as haughtily as he can manage when his cheek seems to have found its way onto the other man’s chest. Jesse’s prosthetic arm is somewhat uncomfortable underneath him, but Hanzo does not want to aggravate the injury on his other side.

 

“I missed this,” Jesse says, softly. “Havin’ you curled up against me like there ain’t nowhere in the world you’d rather be.”

 

“Hmm.” Hanzo curls closer to him at his words. “I have missed you as well,” he finally admits. “I have missed you a great deal.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The growling of his stomach wakes Hanzo. The clock tells him that it has been hours since they fell back asleep. It is almost time for dinner.

 

“Look who’s awake,” Jesse says. “Great timing too. I think I’m due for some more pills, and they’re all the way over there.”

 

Hanzo isn’t sure he wants to give up his comfortable resting spot, but the alternative is not an option. So he rolls out of the bed and walks over to where he left the bottles earlier.

 

“Just the two,” Jesse comments. “I’d rather not face plant into my dinner.”

 

Hanzo frowns. “Are you certain?”

 

“The bottle says, ‘As needed.’ I don’t need one right now,” Jesse informs him.

 

The tightness around Jesse’s eyes says his words might be a lie, but Hanzo does as he requests and leaves the third pill untouched.

 

“Gonna be a bitch getting to the mess hall,” Jesse comments after he swallows down his medication.

 

“I can make you something here,” Hanzo offers.

 

Jesse’s nose wrinkles. “No offense, but natto is not your country’s finest export. And I’m not up to just eating rice. Besides, we should probably start facing the music sooner or later.”

 

“You are right,” Hanzo concedes. It will do no good to stay holed up in his room all day.

 

“Hey,” Jesse says, “I ain’t looking forward to all the advice and commentary any more than you are. Though, I do admit that it’ll be nice to have your brother off my back. Been murder working with Genji lately.”

 

“I doubt that will change much,” Hanzo informs him. Genji is an altered man after Zenyatta’s teachings, but guilt is different from anger. Hanzo’s brother blames himself for encouraging Hanzo into being receptive of Jesse’s courtship. He alone knows that Hanzo is not one to seek romance.

 

“I would never have been with you if not for Genji,” Hanzo tells him.

 

“Really?” Jesse sounds surprised.

 

“I do not easily open myself up to others. You know this,” Hanzo explains. “Genji said that you were an honorable man. That I needed to build a life for myself beyond repentance. That you would not treat me ill.”

 

Jesse blows out a breath. “And I went and proved him wrong, didn’t I?”

 

“No,” Hanzo hastens to reassure him.

 

“That’s mighty kind of you to say, but you know it ain’t true,” Jesse says. “I’m surprised I’m even here right now. I didn’t even get around to the part of my apology where I tell you all about how I’m gonna be a different man this time around.”

 

“I do not need you to be a different man,” Hanzo tells him. “I need you to listen to me.”

 

“See, now, you say things like that, and you’ll regret it,” Jesse sounds bitter. He is, perhaps, angry with himself. Hanzo knows that particular feeling well.

 

“If it makes you feel better, you can tell me all about your plans to be a better man,” Hanzo tells him. It is something that would be for the best. They had broken apart for a reason. To continue on as if nothing has happened would be foolhardy. “But we should eat first.”

 

“You may have a point there,” Jesse concedes. “I hope Lena made something easy to eat. I ain’t up to using utensils with this thing.”

 

“I will make you a sandwich if not,” Hanzo tells him. “Unless you wish for me to assist you as I did last night?”

 

“You promised you weren’t going to mention that again.”

 

“No. I promised that I would not tell anybody else,” Hanzo corrects.

 

“Well whatever you said, I’m still not going to let you feed me in front of the others,” Jesse says, “I don’t need to hear the jokes.”

 

“Fair enough,” Hanzo agrees. He slips the ‘as needed’ prescription bottle in his pocket before helping Jesse off the bed. Without his boots on, Jesse doesn’t quite tower over Hanzo as he normally does, but he is still significantly taller.

 

“Perhaps we should ask for someone else’s assistance,” Hanzo suggests when Jesse sways on his feet.

 

“Don’t be silly. I’m just getting my bearings is all.”

 

“Do not aggravate your injuries for the sake of foolish pride,” Hanzo warns him.

 

Jesse’s shoulders slump. “Look. I’m tired of strange hands poking and prodding at me, and I’m real tired of not having your hands on me. I just want, I just want…” he makes a vague hand gesture that Hanzo assumes is made even more undecipherable by the lack of fine motor control he has in his artificial hand.

 

“We will go as is,” Hanzo defers to Jesse’s wishes. People have often told Hanzo that he is difficult to read. That fact is something he takes pride in. But, in some ways, Jesse is more difficult. He speaks and speaks often, but his true feelings and intentions are buried behind a verbal wall of friendliness and charm.

 

“Thank you,” Jesse’s words are heartfelt. They make Hanzo feel embarrassed.

 

“There is no need for thanks,” Hanzo tells him as he slowly begins to lead them out of his room so they can make the trek for dinner.

 

“You keep telling me that, but I still don’t think I agree with you.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Dinner is awkward. Hanzo and Jesse are left to themselves, but it is clear that everyone in the room is watching them. There are more of them than normal, replacements trickling in to relieve those who were on duty during their almost fatal mission. Dr. Ziegler is still several hours out, but Hanzo finds himself eagerly awaiting her return for Jesse’s sake.

 

 Jesse has to eat slowly in order to keep his temporary hand from smacking his own face. It is painful to watch a man so coordinated have such trouble with such a mundane task. The slowness of the way he must take his meal also means that Hanzo cannot simply finish his food and leave, as much as he wishes to do so.

 

Hanzo tries to look on the positive side of things. Lena has provided a food that McCree can eat without assistance. Though, to be honest, Hanzo is not certain that the chicken nuggets she has deep fried are actually food. The ‘chicken’ inside the breading seems to be made of some unidentifiable substance.

 

He gladly deposits the remainder of his supposedly chicken nuggets onto Jesse’s plate when he sees the longing look his boyfriend gives them. Instead he opts to eat the mountain of fries that Lena deposited on his plate. The meal is not in any way balanced, but the company by his side makes him hold his tongue.

 

Jesse is happy. Hanzo can tell by the way the crow’s feet taking hold on his face crinkle whenever he looks in Hanzo’s direction. Though a smile is often on Jesse’s face, his eyes give his true emotions away. Interrupting his good mood feels like it would be a crime.

 

It strikes Hanzo that he has not seen happiness on Jesse’s face in quite some time. He can admit that he did not want to see it there. Pettiness is not a trait that he would normally ascribe himself, but it seems that his hurt over their separation had inspired it in him.

 

“You _have_ missed me,” Hanzo observes when he catches Jesse glancing over at him for the seventh time. There is some wonderment in that fact.

 

A flush catches on Jesse’s cheeks. “Turns out you’re a hard man to get outta my system,” he admits.

 

“Are you two love birds going to finish eating your food before you start making out at the dinner table?” Jack asks as he sits down across from them. He has a cup of coffee in his hand, no food to be seen. Hanzo does not remember seeing him in the room when they first sat down for dinner. He thinks that it might be a habit left over from Jack’s days of pretending not to be himself when he would not eat in the presence of others for fear of revealing his identity.

 

“I’m an injured man, Jack. Can’t the lecture wait until later?” Jesse’s face looks pitiful. Hanzo wants to laugh at the obviousness of his ploy.

 

“Who said I’m here to lecture?” Jack asks. “Maybe I’m here to congratulate Hanzo on prying your head out of your ass.”

 

This time, Hanzo cannot contain his laughter. Beside him, Jesse sputters and coughs. “Excuse me?” he drawls in a way that Hanzo knows is an attempt to cover his shock.

 

“Well, Lena tells me that you two have, and I quote, ‘Made up like a pair of turtle doves, luv!’” Jack’s imitation of her accent is surprisingly accurate.

 

“I heard that!” Lena’s voice echoes out from the kitchen. By the time her sentence ends, the rest of the room has taken it as their cue to give up all pretense of indifference. Some are outright staring.

 

“I do not know why you’re all so interested in our private lives,” Jesse grumbles.

 

“Didn’t seem to bother you when you made a spectacle of yourself breaking up with him,” Jack grunts as he tips his mug in Hanzo’s direction.

 

“I’m trying to be a better man this time around,” Jesse growls defensively.

 

“Glad to hear it,” Jack says, “I don’t want you to fuck up the way I did.”

 

The look on Jesse’s face goes from irritated to sympathetic in seconds. It strikes Hanzo that Jack’s ill-fated love affair must have happened during his time in Overwatch. The timing makes sense. The majority of the man’s life is _still_ wrapped up in it, however shabby it is in comparison to its glory days.

 

That others obviously know of it is a bit more surprising. Hanzo has always found Jack to be a private person. What he knows of him he has gleaned mostly from his actions in the battlefield. Now he wonders if the more personal conversations Jack has had with him used to be his norm.

 

Interpersonal relationships are far more effective at uniting an organization than barking orders. This facet of leadership is something that Hanzo has always struggled with. He is a man of few words and those words became fewer after Genji’s ‘death.’ He wonders if Morrison knows just how much he is starting to fall back into old habits.

 

Jack clears his throat. “Got some bad news for the two of you. Winston wants me and Hanzo to ship out this evening.”

 

“Ah. Hell, Jack,” Jesse grumbles. “That’s some shit timing.”

 

Jack shrugs and takes a swig of his coffee. “Not my call.”

 

“Maybe it should be. Winston’s a scientist not a soldier.” The tone of Jesse’s words suggests that this is an old disagreement. How old, Hanzo has no way of knowing. It may be recent or it could be decades.

 

“Well, I am,” Jack’s voice steels with a hint of command, “and I’m not about to usurp someone else’s authority because I’ve got more supposed experience. I’m not Reyes.”

 

Hanzo can feel the room go quiet. Reyes is a name that is not spoken among the members of Overwatch. It is an unwritten rule, though Hanzo is not entirely certain why. He knows only rumors of dissent. Despite its unfortunate downfall, Overwatch has always been good at forming ranks and not exposing its weaknesses.

 

That talent remains strong in the new Overwatch. They disagree with each other and fight to their utmost, but are united against their enemies. This alone supports Hanzo’s beliefs that the ultimate destruction of the original organization came from within.

 

“I ain’t sayin’ you are,” Jesse says slowly, “and you know I ain’t sayin’ you should be. But any fool can see that Winston is drowning. Fact is that if Winston had done his job right, me and Lúcio wouldn’t have been fodder for Talon’s trap _._ Ain’t that right, Lena?”

 

Hanzo catches the brief flash of guilt and turmoil that takes over her face. Winston is a good friend of hers, perhaps even her best friend. “He’s been better,” she finally says.

 

“Then we help him. Support him,” Jack growls. “We don’t yank the goddamn carpet out from underneath his feet because we think he’s not fit for command anymore.”

 

“I do not believe anyone is suggesting that,” Hanzo says in a soft voice. This way of speaking is unnatural to him. Shimadas are not raised to be tender. But he knows that firm words are not needed.

 

“Could’ve fooled me.” Jack pushes back his chair and stands. “Meet me in the garage at 21:00,” he orders before marching off.

 

“Well that could’ve gone better,” Lena says as she sinks into Jack’s vacated seat. She doesn’t bother to right it. “Just when I think we won’t have drama for a while because you two made up.”

 

Jesse doesn’t answer. Instead he pushes his remaining food around on his plate, not taking another bite. The rest of the room goes back to their previous conversations, voices not as joyful as before.

 

“If you’re looking for an apology ‘bout what I said about Winston, you’re going to be sorely disappointed,” Jesse finally tells her.

 

Lena blows out a breath and shakes her head. “We’ve all been talking about it for a while now, yeah? Had to be said sooner or later.”

 

Hanzo holds his tongue. What he knows about the subject is limited to private conversation. Exposing Jack’s personal turmoil over leadership is something that would be dishonorable.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Once Jesse is deposited back in his own bed, Hanzo returns to his room to pack. He doubts that he will be gone for long, so he does not bother to put away what few personal items litter his room. Even though he does not care to be separated from Jesse before things are better settled between them, Hanzo can appreciate the need to have him mobile.

 

Winston has already sent more people than their allotment to Hanzo’s current base. Dr. Ziegler’s arrival will mean taking even more people out of the active field. They cannot allow their missions to lapse because of a few injuries.

 

If Hanzo is honest, he finds the current shuffling to be less than ideal. Even taking his personal desires out of the equation, there seems to be excessive movement of personnel. With how small Overwatch has become, they can ill afford to waste what resources they have. Winston’s movements have the markings of indecisiveness, like he keeps changing his mind on where people need to be.

 

Hanzo does not voice these opinions when he drops the last of Jesse’s medication off in his room. His lover is sleeping, having finally caved and taken his pain medication. There is no need to disturb him. If all goes well, Hanzo will return to his side before too long.

 

Jack is leaning against a small, non-descript car when Hanzo reaches the garage. They exchange a nod before Jack slips into the driver’s seat and Hanzo loads his luggage into the trunk. His replacement bow and quiver go in the backseat. It is less than ideal, but the bow cannot comfortably sit in his lap without poking the driver with its end.

 

They drive in silence for a while. The mission brief is on a data pad that sits idle in Hanzo’s fingers. He feels the need to speak, but knows not what to say. There is no deep relationship between them, no massive, shared history that he can draw upon.

 

“Spit it out,” Jack sighs after yet another signpost flies by.

 

“If I had words, I would speak them,” Hanzo admits. This makes Jack laugh, though the sound isn’t all that cheerful.

 

“You think I overreacted.”

 

Hanzo does not know if that is a question or a statement, but he feels he must answer. “When last we spoke on this subject, you expressed the same opinions that Jesse offered. I wonder why you are so forcefully against others sharing your own opinion.”

 

“It’s complicated,” Jack grunts. The car increases in speed, and they sit in silence again. “I spoke harshly to Winston on a mission not long ago. Asked him if he thought he could do _my_ job. I was angry, jealous.”

 

“I am perhaps a hypocrite in saying this, but such emotions are understandable, normal even,” Hanzo tells him. He is uncomfortable speaking the words. They sound hollow coming from his mouth.

 

“Feelings like that destroyed Overwatch the first time.” Jack’s words feel like a correction. “I can’t allow myself to help destroy it a second time. I won’t allow it.”

 

Scenery whirs by as the car goes down side streets and doubles back. As far as Hanzo can tell, they are not being followed. He wonders if Jack is being cautious or paranoid.

 

“Why is it that you fear your own feelings?” Hanzo asks.

 

“You’re one to talk,” Jack scoffs.

 

“We are not talking about me,” Hanzo reminds him.

 

Jack viciously stabs a finger on the dash of the vehicle. For a second, Hanzo thinks that he is turning on music to discourage conversation, but that is not the case. A video of the black figure from their nearly fatal mission starts playing. Curiously, it isn’t footage of his rather astonishing ability to turn into smoke or teleport. It is just a loop of his movements. Firing a gun, ducking into cover, grappling with an enemy: the movements are all things any competent person would do in battle.

“That man,” Jack’s voice isn’t quite steady, “is Gabriel Reyes.”

 

“The original leader of Overwatch?” Hanzo asks.

 

“The same,” Jack confirms.

 

“Are you certain? I thought he was long retired, a consultant long before Overwatch’s destruction. I thought he died in the explosion that supposedly killed you.”

 

“Oh. I’m very certain. Reyes never retired, apparently he never died, and he sure as fuck wasn’t a consultant. When I took over, he was shifted to head of our black ops division. He didn’t exactly take kindly to being laterally moved,” Jack explains. “The consulting line was just a way to excuse his presence whenever he got caught – which was far too often for somebody that was as competent as he is.”

 

“He got noticed on purpose?” Hanzo grabs onto what seems like the easiest question first.

 

“Like I said, Gabriel didn’t much care for me taking over ‘his’ position. He liked to make things difficult when he could.”

 

“And you do not wish to be like him,” Hanzo surmises.

 

“No. I don’t. I also can’t risk getting my team killed. Gabriel knows me better than anybody else. Before everything went to shit, he was my best friend. We were fucking inseparable. I lead the team, and it’ll be another bomb in another building someday.” Jack stabs at a couple more buttons and a different video clip starts to play.

 

“You see that?” he asks as Reaper pauses dead in his tracks and surveys the area. “That’s what he does when he’s thinking, when he’s adapting his plan. He was figuring out those new formations I’d made.”

 

“This is why they were so well prepared for our normal tactics?” Hanzo asks though he already knows the answer.

 

“Got it in one,” Jack confirms.

 

“Does the rest of the team know?” is Hanzo’s next question.

 

“No. I was distracted with everything going on. Only took the time to review the footage D.Va and Bastion captured a couple days ago. It took me an embarrassingly long time to know where I’d seen those body movements before. I figure it’s the kind of news that deserves being broken in person seems how we’re meeting up with Winston anyway,” Jack explains.

 

“Why tell me first?” Hanzo asks. He feels it is a reasonable enough question. There is no need for Jack to expose old wounds or new ones to him.

 

“Because McCree isn’t going to take the news very well, and you ought to be prepared as you can be for the fallout.”

 

The explanation is not something that Hanzo expects. “What?” he finds himself saying.

 

“Gabriel recruited McCree, taught him how to be something other than a low life criminal. He saved his ass from death or prison. Gabriel was his mentor and McCree something of a star pupil. Odds are McCree is going to take the news worse than all the rest of us,” Jack explains.

 

“Jesse has not mentioned this to me,” Hanzo says. It is not something that bothers him. They both prefer not to dwell on the rough aspects of their lives, living instead for the good they can do now. That part of Jesse’s regret lies in his past ties to Overwatch instead of the Deadlock Gang is new but not devastating information.

 

“I’m not surprised. McCree resigned his position because he couldn’t condone what Gabriel was doing, but he couldn’t side against him either. I imagine the following events gave him something of a guilt complex. Fuck knows they gave me one,” Jack says ruefully.

 

Thoughts collide in Hanzo’s brain as he processes the information given him. There are many angles to consider. While Jack’s expressed concern is for Jesse, it is only logical that any who personally knew Gabriel Reyes will be unsettled by the news of his continued existence and villainy. There are precious few members of the new Overwatch who were not once members of the old, but Hanzo will have to make sure that they cover the backs of their teammates should they encounter Reyes in the field.

 

Beyond his duty to ensure the safety of his compatriots in battle, there is another, more disturbing thought that occurs to him. “Do you think Reyes separated Jesse from the rest of us on purpose?”

 

The shadows in the car do not hide the way Jack’s jaw clenches. “Yes.”

 

“And you fear he might try to do so again.”

 

“I think that’s a fear we both share,” Jack says. “Reaper, as Gabriel has taken to calling himself, has been methodically assassinating old Overwatch agents. McCree should’ve been dead when you found him, not surrounded by Talon agents. I think it’s safe to say that he would’ve been our next Amélie.”

 

Jack pauses, glances over at Hanzo with what looks like an anguished expression before turning away. “You made the right call that day. I didn’t.”

 

“I made a foolish decision based on my emotional interests,” Hanzo corrects him. “It is mere luck that I have saved Overwatch future trouble.”

 

“Good intentions don’t always yield the best results,” Jack replies.

 

Hanzo doesn’t say anything to that. What is there to say when the words are right, but the guilt over them is not?

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

Traveling to the United States of America in the belly of a cargo hold brings to mind the last time Hanzo was in the country with Genji beside him. Back then, he had been seated in first class, drinking champagne and listening to his father lecture Genji about why it wasn’t appropriate to send pictures of his erection to their associates. This trip is both better and worse than that one. The accommodations are worse, but there is no lecture. His brother is not regaling him with details of his sexual debauchery to make heavily drinking a necessity.

 

But Genji does feature prominently in both trips. He is waiting at the safe house with Winston, Zenyatta and Pharah when they arrive. Hanzo cannot help but see, for the briefest of seconds, his brother in an expensive suit, pouting because their father had forbidden him to hire some… entertainment for the evening. The Genji from his memories is almost a completely different person than the one standing before him.

 

“ _You look lost, brother_ ,” Genji says as they move towards the emergency meeting room Winston has setup.

 

“ _It is nothing_ ,” Hanzo demurs.

 

“ _I very much doubt that_ ,” Genji counters.

 

“ _I was thinking of the last time we were in this country together_ ,” Hanzo admits. He is enough of a coward to avert his eyes. Fear over his brother’s reactions is still ingrained in him. He remembers being desperate to fix Genji, knowing that their father’s illness would dissolve the political connections that protected his brother from retribution. He remembers how bitterly he failed.

 

“ _You are still afraid of me_.” Genji is more perceptive than he was before. Either that or he has always been watching and never mentioned it. Hanzo does not know which scenario makes him sadder.

 

“ _I have never been afraid of you,_ ” Hanzo eventually corrects as they take their seats around the table. “ _I have only ever feared your loss.”_ Neither of them points out that Hanzo’s fear was valid. They both know that fact to be true.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The news that Jack presents to Winston at the end of their meeting brings the mood of the room down significantly. Even Pharah seems lost in thought, probably remembering the man she once knew to be a good friend of her mother’s. Genji leaves the room quietly, but Hanzo is still able to find him perched on the roof of the ramshackle house they are currently using as a base.

 

“ _You are not well_ ,” he observes as he sits down next to his brother.

 

“ _Reyes was already hardened when I first joined Overwatch,”_ Genji tells him, “ _but he was a great hero. I fear for what this will do to us_.”

 

“ _Hmm_ ,” Hanzo hums in agreement. His brother’s concern is valid. “ _Jack thinks that Jesse will be most undone when the news reaches him_.”

 

Genji tilts his head before asking, “ _Is there are reason you are calling McCree, ‘Jesse,’ again?”_

 

Hanzo feels his cheeks flush. _“We have reconciled.”_

_“I see,”_ Genji sounds disapproving just as Hanzo knew he would.

 

_“Genji…”_

 

_“Hanzo, if I needed to assassinate somebody, there is none I would call before you. But you are naïve when it comes to matters of sex and romance.”_

_“Just because I have not participated in several orgies does not make me ignorant,”_ Hanzo spits. _“Besides, he is a good man. You have said this much of him.”_

_“He broke your heart,”_ Genji counters. _“Have you even discussed with him the changes needed for your relationship? Or did you cave the instant he asked?”_

_“If you must know, we made plans to speak of it. We postponed them because I was needed on this mission,”_ Hanzo haughtily informs him.

 

 _“So you did not speak of it. Hanzo, you should not be so reckless,”_ Genji councils. His tone sounds superior as if he is speaking to a small boy whose heart has been toyed with by a playground schoolmate.

 

 _“You would speak to me of recklessness?”_ Hanzo tries to hold his temper, but it slips through his fingers like running water. _“You?”_

_“That was a long time ago, Brother.”_

_“Not so long that I cannot perfectly imagine the look on father’s face when he had to buy you back from a rival clan,”_ Hanzo hisses. _“Over cocaine, if memory serves. Or perhaps you would have me speak of the time that you stole grandmother’s necklace as collateral for a bet you were certain you would win._ _No, Brother, no amount of tranquility and inner peace will earn you the right to lecture me on recklessness. Fratricide, certainly, but not recklessness.”_

 

Genji is silent. Hanzo glares at the side of nearby building, willing his heartrate to slow. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Checking, it proves to be a text from Jesse.

 

 **“Look what I got!”** the caption reads. Along with the words is a picture of Jesse with prosthetic that looks a lot like his old one.

 

 **“I hope Dr. Ziegler can work such miracles with the rest of your body,”** Hanzo sends back. He hesitates for a second, shoots a glare at his brother’s turned head before adding, **“I have need of it.”**

 

Jesse replies with a string of hearts and what Hanzo thinks are supposed to be penises. He cannot help but laugh. The text coaxes at the anger inside him, getting it to give way to fondness.

 

“ _You love him_ ,” Genji observes.

 

“ _You knew this already_ ,” Hanzo coolly reminds him.

 

 _“Does he know that you can be as prissy as a wet cat when you are angry, or are you waiting until you get him to marry you to let him know?_ ” Genji is clearly trying to smooth over their spat. It is something he would not have done before.

 

Hanzo is, despite what many in Overwatch assume, the peacemaker in his family. He is the older brother, and he once embodied that protective, bossy role to its utmost. Genji is the one who would never back down and never admit he was in the wrong.

 

 _“He is well aware of my faults,”_ Hanzo responds. It is the best he can manage.

 

Genji sighs. _“I do not wish to lecture you, Brother. I did not give you forgiveness and offer a path for redemption because I wish to punish or condemn. I am merely concerned. You give your heart so rarely that when you do, you give far too much of it. McCree is not this way. I cannot help but fear he will shatter you.”_

_“Hmm.”_ Hanzo has no other response to give. He disagrees with Genji on a philosophical level.  Hanzo is selective in giving his heart, and he is not certain it is possible to give too much once he determines that a person is worthy of his affection. But such a discussion is pointless.

 

Instead he tells his brother, _“You do not need to feel guilt nor do you need to protect me. If Jesse and I fall apart again, I will still treasure the time we had together even if it takes time to heal.”_

 

 _“You sound too wise and old to be my brother,”_ Genji observes.

 

Hanzo gives him a soft chuckle in return. _“Not all wisdom comes from omnic monks.”_

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The mission is a simple yet necessary one. Without governmental funding, the new Overwatch has to look elsewhere for resources. As much as Hanzo wants to put an arrow through the omnic movie director, he is required to do the opposite. They are being paid handsomely to keep one Hal-Fred Glitchbot from coming to an untimely end during his controversial contract negotiations for his next film.

 

Hanzo likes to think that he has come a long way in terms of his acceptance of diversity. He has not ever been as steeped in hatred as others are, but he has been known to frown upon omnics or even feel disgust towards their existence.

 

He is different now, which is why he is in a tacky gift shop, looking for a trinket to bring back for Bastion and Wee-Woo. Bastion has sent him no less than seven selfies of him with his little bird. They are forlorn looking in the pictures. Hanzo remembers when his brother used to send their father such photographs when he was away on business trips – all for the purpose of getting some knickknack or another.

 

Zenyatta is floating off somewhere by the card section. Genji is outside, perched on a rooftop for surveillance. Winston is with their mouthy charge. Hanzo pities him even beyond Jack who is stationed right outside the meeting room Glitchbot is currently in, standing at perfect, military attention. He does not pity Pharah. She is working on her tan, infiltrating a pool party for the purposes of finding the mole that keeps leaking Glitchbot’s location to anti-Omnic parties.

 

Hanzo misses swimming in a pool. He also misses the vision of Jesse in his ridiculously tight, red swim trunks. The two yearnings are not mutually exclusive.

 

“An excellent gift,” Zenyatta says as he floats up beside him. There is a wide selection of post cards in his hands. Hanzo does not think he has sent that many cards in his life. Paper greetings are something of a novelty, and Shimadas are not allowed to appear kitschy.  “Though I do not understand why you are also purchasing bird seed.”

 

“Bastion would be unhappy if I did not also purchase Wee-Woo something,” Hanzo says in as serious a manner as he can manage.

 

“‘Wee-Woo’?” Zenyatta’s curiosity is plain.

 

“Bastion’s bird friend,” Hanzo informs him.

 

“Ah. Ganymede. Bastion is quite fond of the little bird. The Iris embraces all life. I am happy that Bastion has found serenity in his avian companion,” Zenyatta opines.

 

Hanzo doesn’t hear much of what the former monk says. Much like he does when Genji starts waxing poetic about peace and serenity, Hanzo tunes out when Zenyatta starts talking about the Iris. It is for his own sanity and the safety of Zenyatta’s parts.

 

Aside from that, his mind is focused on one very important piece of information. “Wee-Woo’s actual name is _Ganymede_?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“If I told you that I was your Huckleberry, would that get me negative or positive brownie points?” Jesse asks as soon as Hanzo answers his phone.

 

“For the last time, there are no points. There is not a point system,” Hanzo sighs as he sinks down onto the small, cheap bed he was given. “Why is this the discussion you must bring back into our relationship?”

 

“Okay, but if there were points,” Jesse insists.

 

“Then I would need to taste this berry first. If sufficiently unalike to a strawberry, I would then ask what the purpose is of claiming to be a fruit,” Hanzo informs him.  

 

Jesse laughs. “Okay, you got me there. Remind me to make you watch _Tombstone_ one of these days through.”

 

“Looking at graves is a maudlin suggestion for a date,” Hanzo purposefully misunderstands him.

 

“Funny, Hanzo. Funny,” Jesse drawls.

 

Hanzo takes a breath and stares at the wall for a bit before saying, “Speaking of tombstones, I am told that Jack Morrison is not the only Overwatch member to escape the need for his.”

 

“That’s a mighty fine transition you used there. ‘Course it might be better with a few bricks attached to it in case I didn’t get the message.” Jesse sounds defensive, almost wary.

 

“It is not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable,” Hanzo assures him. “I am only concerned for your wellbeing.”

 

Jesse’s breath echoes through the phone for a few moments. “I’ve been better. Been worse too. It was bad enough, knowing Reyes did what he did. But at least he was gone, you know? He was resting in peace.”

 

“Jack mentioned that you might not take the news very well,” Hanzo says when silence takes over their conversation again.

 

“That man saved my life. He dragged me kicking and screaming to the good side of the law. And I watched him go down the rabbit hole of hatred so far that nobody could pull him back. Ain’t nobody needs to see their hero do that. I was a coward who left Overwatch because Reyes was pushing me to get in on his plan. Sometimes I wonder if I’d run screaming to Jack, warned him or something, if things might’ve been different,” Jesse admits.

 

“Most certainly they would be,” Hanzo agrees. “You would be dead. Truly dead and not pretending to be,” he clarifies. Overwatch being what it is, he always feels the need to clarify what ‘death’ actually means.

 

“You got no way of knowing that,” Jesse argues.

 

Hanzo shakes his head despite their conversation being audio only. “Do you think he would have let you live if you had openly opposed him? A man who can instigate the destruction of Overwatch’s most secure facility and incapacitate its leader? That sort of man would not be so foolish as to leave you alive. I would not have, if I was in his position.”

 

“That’s actually real nice of you to say,” Jesse softly admits.

 

“I do try,” Hanzo tells him. “I am not always the best at words.”

 

“That’s okay, Darlin’. I ain’t the best at listening to them.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 “You talk to McCree?” Jack asks the next day. They are standing outside a different meeting room door. There is a severe amount of yelling going on inside of it. Hanzo is starting to think that all film directors do is yell.

 

“Yes.”

 

“How’d it go?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Something crawl up your ass and die, or did it not really go ‘fine’?” Jack sounds amused. How he can sound jovial while standing perfectly still is beyond Hanzo. Stillness is something that requires silence and focus.

 

“It went fine,” Hanzo says through clenched teeth.

 

“Okay,” Jack says like he doesn’t believe him.

 

To be fair, Hanzo knows that he is giving off all the wrong signals. It isn’t even that he thinks Jesse would mind him sharing details of last night’s conversation with their teammate.

 

Hanzo is much too proud to admit that Bastion sent him a picture of Hanzo’s bedroom, complete with Jesse’s hot pepper collection taking up space on HANZO’s side of the room. This spot is otherwise known as the place specifically forbidden from kitschy figurines or any other tacky, cowboy paraphernalia. That Jesse has roped Hanzo’s friend into helping with this endeavor only adds insult to injury.

 

But Hanzo feels as if he cannot admit this unfortunate malady to anyone. Even though Jack is likely to understand or sympathize, Genji will overhear. If Genji overhears Hanzo speaking ill of Jesse already, there will be more words between them. Fighting with his brother has never been Hanzo’s favorite pastime no matter how often they quarreled. He prefers to not instigate another one.

 

So he stands, in silence, plotting his revenge.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Although the air around the base is much colder than it was in Hollywood, Hanzo is nonetheless grateful to be returning. He is quite done with fussy omnics and business meetings. They bring to mind memories best forgotten. The days of him training to take over the Shimada clan are long past him.

 

“Wee woo wooo wooo wee weep!” Bastion chirps a he stomps up to greet Hanzo. Ganymede chirps in excitement as well, though that might be because of the package of birdseed in Hanzo’s hand.

 

“If you are telling me about your redecorating efforts, know that Jesse mislead you,” Hanzo tells him.

 

“Woo wee wee woooooo,” Bastion retorts.

 

“I am _not_ set in my ways,” Hanzo huffs, though he cannot keep his lips from smiling.

 

“Oh, Darlin’, you are. But that’s okay. I like my men a little obstinate,” Jesse says as he limps over. He is using a single crutch to support his weight, but the color of his skin is improved, no longer a sickly grey and devoid of bright flushes. The constant etch of pain no longer overtakes his features.

 

“It is a wonder then that you are not trying to woo Jack Morrison instead of me,” Hanzo teases.

 

“I said ‘obstinate’ not old,” Jesse reminds him.

 

“Remind me how old I am when I’m running laps around your sorry ass even when you’re at 100%,” Jack interrupts as he finally closes the trunk of the car and starts ushering them all out of the garage.

 

“Now that’s not fair,” Jesse whines. “Some of us didn’t have weird drugs put in our systems so we could become slower versions of The Flash.”

 

“I always preferred Quicksilver, to be honest,” Hanzo interjects.

 

“Maybe you should be the one dating Jack then. He’s got that silver part down right.”

 

“Breee boo wee woo wee,” Bastion chitters.

 

“Ain’t nobody asked you, Bastion,” Jesse grumbles.

 

“What’d he say?” Jack asks.

 

“More or less that Jesse shouldn’t be poking at other people’s hair color when he has more than a few gray hairs himself,” Hanzo translates. Part of him wonders how he has gotten so adept at learning what Bastion is saying. But he remembers thinking that Ganymede’s name was ‘Wee-Woo’ for the longest time and reminds himself that his pride is misplaced.

 

 

“Not as many as you,” Jesse points out.

 

“My _silver_ hair makes me look distinguished,” Hanzo says with as much superiority as he can manage. As expected, Jesse bursts into laughter. In turn, Hanzo hums in amusement.

 

“Don’t look at me,” Jack says, “my hair just makes me look bald.”

 

“Jack, your ability to tell a joke hasn’t improved over the years,” Jesse tells him.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Yuck it up. I’ll just go off and leave you two young whippersnappers alone,” is Jack’s response. He beckons as Bastion as he leaves and the omnic follows him.

 

“You have mended fences with Basiton,” Hanzo mentions as soon as he is reasonably certain his friend is out of earshot.

 

“Yeah. I figured it wouldn’t do to be on the outs with him. He forgave me right quick. Nicer than most people,” Jesse admits. “Plus, you know, he’s a walking turret.”

 

“Hmm. Well, you are a hard man to stay mad at.” Hanzo closes the distance between them as they continue to walk. Now that others are not around, there is no reason to maintain so much space between them.

 

Jesse shoots him a bright smile even as he shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’re one of the few people who think that.”

 

“Then the rest of those people are fools,” Hanzo tells him.

 

Jesse stops walking. The look on his face is soft, almost wistful. “ _I_ was the damn fool for chasing you off. Nobody ever compliments me on my personality. My good looks and aim, sure. Not me as a person.”

 

“Your aim could be better,” Hanzo sniffs. He tries not to mirror Jesse’s expression. Soft looks in hallways lead to soft kisses in hallways, and Hanzo dearly wants his big, soft bed after traveling in another cargo bay for hours.

 

“Okay, okay. No sappy stuff in the hallways. I get the message.”

 

If Hanzo brushes his knuckles against Jesse’s mechanical hand when they start walking again, it is just between the two of them.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When the sun rises the next morning, Hanzo is already awake. Jesse is sleeping peacefully beside him. The bed is warm and smells of them, fueling Hanzo’s suspicions that Jesse’s figurines are not the only thing that has been returned to what was once their room.

 

He does not mind and suspects that Jesse knows this. They will have a discussion about his reentry into Hanzo’s domicile though. There are still rules and boundaries, and collectable trinkets need to be in a position where Hanzo does not have to stare at them while going asleep. Never again does he want to have a nightmare about chili peppers.

 

“Go back to sleep,” Jesse complains. “Dang mornin’ person.”

 

“Yes. I forget. You’re more of an afternoon riser,” Hanzo muses.

 

“Don’t you say it,” Jesse warns, one sleepy eye popping open.

 

“A high noon riser,” Hanzo continues even though he had no intention of making the joke before Jesse threatened him.

 

“Dammit, Hanzo.”

 

“Shall I make it up to you?” Hanzo puts as much heat into his words as possible. There is so much to discuss, and they had not covered half of it before sleep began to overtake them the night before. But Hanzo is not immune to the desires of his body. Words can wait.

 

He places his hand on Jesse’s stomach and slowly drifts his fingertips over warm skin and muscle. Only two pairs of underwear separate them from complete nudity, but Hanzo loathes the clothing anyway. His cock is full and heavy, morning erection conspiring with their time of apart to drive him mad with lust.

 

“I forget how damn pretty you are when you’re horny,” Jesse growls. His eyes have lost the fuzziness of sleep as he gazes first at Hanzo’s  face, then at his hand on his stomach. “You planning on doin’ anything with that?”

 

“Hmm,” is all the verbal reply Hanzo gives as he slowly, slowly lets his fingers move lower.  Jesse’s  erection is already tenting his underwear, stretching the fabric, showing off its need. It gratifies Hanzo to see it. Many are the names who have tried to bed him. Few are the names who desired only him and not his position. Often has he been informed that his good looks were only a bonus.

 

“Quit teasing,” Jesse gasps. His hips push up slightly from the bed, muscles contracting under Hanzo’s touch.

 

“I thought you wanted to go back to sleep,” Hanzo purrs. He toys with the waistband of Jesse’s underwear, fingertips dipping just below it.

 

“Fucker,” Jesse swears. “You said that you’d make it up to me.”

 

“This is a fair point,” Hanzo agrees, “though I must be doing something wrong if you are still able to argue.”

 

A groan of complaint comes from Jesse when Hanzo takes his hand away. He tries to sit up, chasing Hanzo’s touch, but only earns a gentle hand on his shoulder that guides him back down. Hanzo knows that he is still recovering. He has no desire for a lecture from Dr. Ziegler should Jesse aggravate his injuries.

 

“Lie still,” Hanzo orders as he pushes his own underwear off his hips. The relief of his cock being free of the confining fabric is short lived. Jesse’s eyes are fixed upon it in an admiring fashion, making Hanzo ache all the more.

 

He hastily rolls off the bed, kicking his underwear to the floor in what he is sure is an ungraceful fashion. Glancing over his shoulder provides a view of Jesse apparently undisturbed by the lack of finesse. His prosthetic hand is gently massaging the bulge in his underwear as his eyes track Hanzo’s form.

 

Hanzo knows that Jesse hates to masturbate himself with his prosthetic. No matter the technology, it is colder than human skin. Having had it upon his body several times, Hanzo can attest to this fact. He suspects this is why Jesse has not bothered unencumbering himself from his undergarment. The fabric is likely providing some sort of warmth barrier.

 

Whatever Jesse’s reasons, the sight is a pleasing one. The vision of it tempts Hanzo to crawl back into bed and touch that same spot. But he has a mission to accomplish before he gets back in bed with his lover.

 

There is a new bottle of lube stuck in the bottom dresser drawer, stashed there when he was consumed with hurt.  In any other circumstance, Hanzo is certain the sight of him rummaging through his clothing would be an unappealing one. But either his nakedness or the promise that said bottle of lube makes seems to have kept Jesse’s interest peaked. His erection is still straining his underwear when Hanzo returns to the bed, and his eyes still have their dilated look of arousal.

 

No matter how many times he has done this, Hanzo still feels awkward when coats his finger with lube and reaches behind himself. He prefers to let his lover prepare him. But that is not an option. No matter how sophisticated Jesse’s prosthetic is, the hard edges of his fingers still catch on Hanzo’s sensitive rim. That sort of pain is not something Hanzo cares to have mixed in with his pleasure.

 

 The first digit goes in smoothly enough, but his second meets some resistance. He is tight and knew it would be so. It has been a long time since he has been penetrated.

 

“Damn that’s hot,” Jesse breathes out. He likes to look at Hanzo, eyes greedy with their lust. His appreciative stare makes Hanzo want to preen.

 

Hanzo knows that he is attractive. Compliments on both the look of his face and body are not uncommon. But no stranger hitting on him has ever made him want to perform before. Past lovers are admittedly few. But none of them can claim that Hanzo allowed them to devour his body with their eyes.

 

But now, Hanzo finds himself arching his back and puffing out his chest. Jesse has often proclaimed a fondness for Hanzo’s pectoral muscles. It is ridiculous, but Hanzo does not complain about the admiration if only to excuse his own fondness for Jesse’s body.

 

“If you are going to look at me in such a manner, you should give me something in return,” Hanzo teases. If his skin flushes as he purposefully looks at Jesse’s crotch, his lover does not mention it.

 

Jesse’s cock slaps heavily up against his stomach not a second later. His underwear bunches on the upper part of his thighs as he tries to push them off.

 

Taking pity, Hanzo pulls his fingers free from his body so that he can use both hands to slide Jesse’s underwear down his legs. He is careful to tug the fabric gently so that it only ghosts over the still healing wound on his thigh, but the action still elicits an uncomfortable gasp.

 

“Ain’t nothing,” Jesse reassures instantly. “Just a little sore is all.”

 

Hanzo presses a soft kiss right above the injury in apology anyway. That elicits a completely different type of gasp, so he places another kiss just above the first one and another above the second. He continues to move upward and inward until his lips brush gently against the tender skin of Jesse’s balls.

 

Jesse’s cock presents a kind of temptation that Hanzo has found difficult to resist. Ever since he first had it in his mouth, he has been haunted by the taste and weight of it. Some men do not like giving head. Hanzo is not one of them.

 

Yielding to his desire, Hanzo crawls between Jesse’s legs just far enough to put his head in the right position. Tired of waiting, he is quick to guide his desired treasure to his mouth. Jesse’s hand immediately winds itself into his hair as he begins to suck.

 

“Shit. Forgot how good you are at that,” Jesse moans. His fingers tighten their grasp, but he doesn’t guide. He doesn’t need to. Hanzo knows what both of them like.

 

There is something about the heat of another man in his mouth that Hanzo craves. The way Jesse’s thickness tugs at his lips, the flavor of his precome coating Hanzo’s tongue, the way Jesse groans when his cock head brushes against the back of his throat: they enhance the pleasure that Hanzo already gains from the act. The power to pleasure another in such a way feeds something in Hanzo that is not merely the desire of his flesh.

 

For a moment, he considers finishing this way - swallowing, bobbing and sucking until Jesse comes into his mouth, jerking his own erection until he comes to the sight of his lover coming undone. But there are other things that he enjoys, and he is eager to have Jesse back inside of him in all ways.

 

There is a frustrated groan that follows Jesse’s departure from his mouth. It makes Hanzo give him a knowing smirk. “Be patient.”

 

“You’re one to talk,” Jesse grumbles.

 

Hanzo scrambles to find the bottle of lube discarded in the sheets. He squeezes more than necessary into his palm, warming it quickly before rubbing it over Jesse’s dick, slicking it until it shines. Though he has not succeeded in stretching himself as he ought, Hanzo no longer wants to wait. As Jesse pointed out, he is impatient.

 

He must have his lover inside him once again. The yearning for their bodies to be one is undeniable, unstoppable. He straddles across Jesse’s hips and takes his firm length in his hand once again. Though Hanzo cannot see what he is doing, it is a simple matter to guide the head of Jesse’s cock to his opening.

 

“Fuck,” Jesse breathes out as Hanzo starts to sink down.

 

Hanzo does not hold back his answering moan as Jesse’s girth stretches him. Pleasure skitters across his senses as his body adjusts to the intrusion.

 

“Yeah, Darlin’. Just like that,” Jesse says as his hand curls onto Hanzo’s hip.

 

Slowly, Hanzo begins to move, waiting for his body to adjust. Hips roll and his back arches as he searches for the right angle. That angle doesn’t take long to find. Though he is out of practice, he has not forgotten how their bodies best move together.

 

This time his, “Hmm,” is far more pleasure than derision or amusement. It is an expression of how good he feels for he cannot form the words.

 

Jesse does not have that problem. “Just like that,” he repeats. His hips flex upwards in a tiny thrust. His still recovering leg will not allow him the leverage that he normally uses when Hanzo rides him. “Feels real good.”

 

That Hanzo can find words to answer with. “I can make it feel better,” he promises, almost purrs.

 

“Yeah?” Jesse’s answer is half breathless wonder and half challenge.

 

It is a good thing for him that Hanzo likes challenges. He begins to move faster, riding Jesse’s cock so it jabs against his prostate over and over again. His own cock aches, but he ignores it in favor of watching the way Jesse’s face twists in pleasure.

 

From expression alone, Hanzo can tell that he is close to coming. There is a particular furrow his brow always gets when he is close. The sight of its appearance only makes Hanzo fuck himself down faster, rolling his hips in a way that he knows Jesse likes.

 

His efforts earn him a choked off gasp and the sight of Jesse’s eyes rolling back in his head before they slam shut. The body between Hanzo’s thighs tenses, and the metal hand on Hanzo’s hip tightens its grip.

 

Hanzo grasps his erection tugging on it with fast, hard strokes. The technique is indelicate but effective. With a groan, he spills onto Jesse’s skin.

 

They take a moment to catch their breath. Jesse’s seed starts to slip out of Hanzo as his cock softens. Hanzo does not move.

 

“Been a long time since we’ve done that,” Jesse finally comments.

 

“Indeed,” Hanzo agrees.

 

“You sure got a pretty face. Wouldn’t mind if it was closer to mine right now,” Jesse hints.

 

Hanzo snorts. It is an indelicate sound. “We both surely have morning breath… amongst other things.”

 

“Refusing to kiss a man after he’s blown you is a mighy low thing to do. I ain’t that kinda fella.”

 

“I will kiss you,” Hanzo concedes, “but only after we both brush our teeth.”

 

“You drive a hard bargain,” Jesse grumbles playfully, “but I suppose we best be moving anyway. Don’t want stick together.”

 

“That would be most unpleasant,” Hanzo agrees as he un-straddles his partner and clambers off the bed.

 

“You’re like a damn cat. All graceful,” Jesse comments.

 

“If you keep telling me these compliments, I will get, how do you say, ‘a big head,’” Hanzo says as he helps the other man to his feet.

 

“Good,” Jesse says. “I aim to give you so big of a head nobody tries to take you away from me. Keep them from stealing off with you. Gotta keep my dragon all to myself.”

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “You are ridiculous.”

 

Jesse shoots him a grin and a wink as he takes hold of his crutch to hobble over towards the bathroom. One of the benefits to Overwatch being far, far smaller than it used to be is the generosity of accommodations. The room they are in used to be reserved for a high ranking officer. There is no way Hanzo would ever have stepped foot in it if Overwatch was still in its former glory.

 

Jesse brushes his teeth while Hanzo starts the water running in his shower. The flat bottomed stall isn’t anything fancy, but it is supremely functional. Though Hanzo has never had occasion to use it, he knows there is a shower chair stored in the closet, put there for when Overwatch members were too exhausted or sore to safely wash themselves while standing.

 

“Do not be embarrassed,” Hanzo orders as he unfolds the chair and puts it in the shower. “I know you cannot safely hold yourself upright right now.”

 

“Nobody would believe me if I told them how sweet you can be,” Jesse comments as he moves over to the shower. Hanzo does not reply, opting instead to help him sit down, propping his crutch up by the side of the stall.

 

Bathing is a simple affair. Technological advancements being what they are, the bandages covering Jesse’s injuries are waterproof. Though it is not sexual, there is a certain amount of intimacy in the act of showering together.

 

Part of Hanzo wonders at how simple it is. There hasn’t been a moment of worry that he has made a mistake. Falling into bed is something easily done. But this is something deeper.  They are sharing more than lust while a short time ago they were at each other’s throats. He wonders if it was only their pride encouraging their separation.

 

“What’re you thinking about?” Jesse asks as Hanzo hands him the shampoo.

 

“I was thinking about how I was going to repay you for putting that wretched collection of yours on my side of the room,” Hanzo lies. There is no need to share his true musings. Jesse is, Hanzo thinks, more doubtful of his intentions than Hanzo is of them.  More correctly, Jesse is uncertain about his ability to live up to his intentions. Hanzo only wants him to try.

 

“Aww. Come on. I’ve got no place to put them in my room. Did you see how tiny it is?” Jesse complains.

 

“I did,” Hanzo confirms. “That does not give you a right to put them on _my_ side of the room.”

 

“Would it help my case if I pointed out you keep saying ‘my’ when the room is yours?” Jesse asks.

 

“No.”

 

“Fine. I’ll move them. Even though it’s the perfect spot for the sunlight to come through the glass ones in the afternoon to add a little color to the walls,” Jesse huffs. He does not sound upset about it though.

 

“You obsession with noon time is troubling,” Hanzo comments. “And your agreement to move that tacky collection does not absolve you of the crime of doing it in the first place.”

 

“Oh, that?” Jesse’s voice is entirely too innocent. “I was thinking that I might make it up to you. You know?”

 

Hanzo stops rubbing soap over his skin. “Did you plan this?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

 

“‘Course not,” Jesse scoffs in a way that Hanzo knows is a lie.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The kitchen is mostly empty when Hanzo wanders down to it. Jesse is back asleep in his bed, sprawled over Hanzo’s side to avoid any wet spots. But even if there wasn’t the matter of unclean bedding to deal with, Hanzo cannot go back to sleep.

 

Jack is sitting at the kitchen island, data pad in one hand, coffee mug in the other. A giant omelet is surrounded by side plates of bacon and toast before him.

 

“I made some extra bacon if you want,” Jack says without even looking in Hanzo’s direction.

 

“Thank you,” Hanzo says as he makes his way over to grab some of the offered food. “I did not think it was your turn to cook.”

 

“It’s not,” Jack grunts. “I just can’t handle what Angela calls food. Never let a doctor cook, Hanzo.”

 

They eat in silence. Hanzo savors the taste of bacon again while Jack methodically makes his way through the enormous meal before him. He is efficient and quick about it without being messy. He doesn’t look like he savors much of it.

 

“Metabolism is a bitch,” Jack comments out of nowhere.

 

“Pardon?” Hanzo replies.

 

Jack’s eyes finally flick up to his. “You were thinking about it. Everybody always does.”

 

“My apologies. I did not mean to be rude.”

 

“You weren’t,” Jack assures him.

 

“You do not eat this much at communal meals,” Hanzo observes now that the subject has been brought up.

 

“I tend to spread out meals,” Jack explains, “Gabriel used to call it Hobbit Eating. If you think this is big, you ought to see what it took to keep him going.” His eyes grow soft with memory for a moment before making a soft ‘huh’ noise and shaking his head.

 

“That much?” Hanzo asks when Jack appears lost in memory.

 

“He had a big stomach and a big mouth. The two kind of went hand in hand,” Jack explains. The words feel like an old joke, something that has lost its humor over time or circumstance.

 

“Gabriel’s metabolism was faster than mine,” Jack says after a moment. “None of the SEP specialists knew why. I half think… I half wonder if… if…”

 

“If that is why he is able to turn to some sort of mist?” Hanzo finishes for him.

 

“Yeah. That,” Jack agrees. “I keep thinking, maybe his molecules are eating themselves apart somehow. But, hell, nothing explains his clothing going with him, does it?”

 

“Perhaps we do not need to know,” Hanzo suggests. “Such things are puzzles for Winston or Dr. Ziegler to discover.”

 

“I suppose so,” Jack says though he does not sound convinced.

 

It is not, Hanzo thinks, that Jack carries too heavy a burden. It is that he carries the wrong one. He is not a scientist to poke at what Reyes has become. He is a farmer’s son, a leader, and a soldier.

 

“When I came to Overwatch, I was here to pay a debt. Nothing more, nothing less. I could not repay this debt. I could not reclaim my honor. I struggled, and I failed. No honorable quest or villain’s death would wash the blood of my brother off my hands.” Hanzo takes a breath, focuses. “But even though I failed, I was accepted. These people who knew what I had done to Genji welcomed me because of his words. I am told that Overwatch has given many second chances. Do you not deserve that opportunity as well?”

 

Jack stares down at his empty plate. “It’s not the same.”

 

“I destroyed my clan out of guilt and anger. You allowed the destruction of yours because of pride and blindness. But I know this, your guilt towards Reyes, towards these people will not save them. You are not so foolish as to believe it will.”

 

“Not exactly easy to stop feeling guilty. You know that,” Jack points out.

 

Hanzo inclines his head, acknowledging his point. He will never be able to look at his brother without feeling a coil of self-hatred in his stomach. “It is a good thing that Overwatch is home to so many with regrets. We understand each other better.”

 

“I can’t be who I used to be,” Jack admits. “I want to. I tried. I can’t.”

 

“No. You cannot,” Hanzo agrees. “But I suspect that the man who assigned Jesse McCree quarters the size of a walk-in closet is not so far from who Jack Morrison was.”

 

“Winston assigns living quarters,” Jack protests.

 

“Yes. On a computer system that you once had the authorization to completely override,” Hanzo points out. “You were not able to raid those former Overwatch facilities because you were an excellent burglar. Your uniform is much too flashy. You make a very poor criminal.”  

 

Jack masks his smile with the action of taking a sip of his coffee. Hanzo is not fooled.

 

“Do not let this man take who you are from you,” Hanzo counsels as he rises from his stool. “I allowed the elders of my clan to do so to me. It did not end well.”

 

“Take the rest of the bacon with you,” Jack orders. “Angela will just throw it out, and I know how McCree gets when he’s forced to be too healthy.”

 

Hanzo inclines his head in acknowledgment. There is no need to point out the way Jack keeps trying to take care of his teammates without apparently noticing it. Hanzo has said his piece. Their relationship does not have the depth or history that Jack has with other members. While Genji has always been one to blaze over personal boundaries, Hanzo is not like his brother. Pushing will do neither of them any good.

 

The bacon is cool by the time he returns to his room. But Hanzo has seen Jesse eat far worse, so he is not terribly concerned about his reception of what Hanzo has brought him. He is, however, surprised to see that Jesse is wide awake.

 

“I thought you were sleeping,” Hanzo comments.

 

Jesse averts his gaze. “Genji called. I answered.”

 

“Ah,” is all Hanzo can say.

 

Jesse’s shoulders are hunched; his muscles tense. It is clear that the temptation to lecture had been beyond Genji’s power to resist. For one who has always disliked being controlled, Genji is more like their father than Hanzo ever was. Even with serenity and purpose, he insists upon his own viewpoint. He is stubborn, and Hanzo lets him have his way more often than not. The fight that nearly claimed Genji’s life is a rare exception – one that was fueled by years of Hanzo ignoring the resentment towards his brother that was building in his own soul.

 

“I haven’t cheated on you,” Jesse rasps quietly. “Not once.”

 

Hanzo sighs. The plate carrying the now cold bacon gets set on the nearest surface with a soft clank before he sits down near Jesse. He is careful not to touch him. It is clear that Jesse has been wounded. When Genji’s temper gets the better of him, he does not spare any feeling when assaulting with words.

 

“When Genji came to Hanamura to convince me to join Overwatch, he mocked me for honoring his memory and reminded me that I had murdered my brother. When Winston told my brother that he was happy they were working together again, Genji’s response was to remind him that it was just for the moment, that he might move on. My brother’s ways are not kind.”

 

“Maybe, but Genji ain’t one to lie either. Said you thought maybe I had,” Jesse tells him. “Asked me how I could even think about dragging you back to me when I was the kind of man to hide from commitment.”

 

“I will not deny that I said such words,” Hanzo admits, “but my brother was more concerned about it than I.  I was hurt more by the idea that I was a fling, an inconsequential, temporary moment. Believing you saw me as such, how could I think that you would see taking other lovers as cheating? Genji is upset about the possibility of the act. I was concerned about the potential cause of it.”

 

“Well you’re both wrong. Wronger than wrong,” Jesse sulks.

 

 

“I know this,” Hanzo says. “I knew when you came to my doorway and stood there like a fool risking further injury. You would not do such a thing for someone who was a, how did you put it? Ah, yes, ‘Bit of fun.’”

 

Jesse groans and covers his face with his hand. “I say stupid things when I’m upset.”

 

“You do,” Hanzo agrees. “It is fortunate for you that my heart is tender towards your advances. Were you any other man, I would not have fucked you again so quickly.”

 

“Darlin’, I don’t think that was your heart doin’ the talking,” Jesse says with a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’m no doctor, but I don’t think hearts are located down there.”

 

“Do not make me regret this,” Hanzo teases in return.

 

“Never,” Jesse promises. “I’m gonna do right by you this time around.”

 

“Do right by us,” Hanzo corrects. “I do not need you to be catering to my whims. I am as flawed as you are. Our reconciliation has moved quickly, perhaps too quickly. We will both have to work towards maintaining it.”

 

“And here I was thinking we hadn’t moved quickly enough,” Jesse comments. “I should’ve chased after you the day after we split. Not been so hard headed and stubborn.”

 

“You should have, but you did not. What matters now is that we do not make the same mistakes as the past. Overwatch has already had its fill of foolish mistakes and missed opportunities, has it not?”

 

Jesse nods. “True enough.”

 

“Good. Then we should speak of more pleasant things for now. I have brought you bacon,” Hanzo says as he gestures at the plate.

 

“Cold bacon,” Jesse notices.

 

“I was told you might appreciate it due to Dr. Ziegler being on cooking duty.”

 

Disgust takes over Jesse’s features. “Who let her on the cooking schedule? She’s going to put those vitamin packs of hers in everything.”

 

“I do not know,” Hanzo admits as he rises to fetch the food.

 

“Well, thank you kindly for the grub then,” Jesse says as he takes the plate from Hanzo’s hands.

 

“You should thank Jack for that,” Hanzo tells him. “He suggested I bring it to you.”

 

“He would think like that. Him and Reyes used to be able to devour a whole Thanksgiving dinner all by themselves,” Jesse says before all but swallowing an entire piece of bacon. Normally, Hanzo would protest him eating on the bed, but the sheets are already in need of cleaning after their earlier activities.

 

 “You seem to have chummed up to him pretty good,” Jesse comments, breaking Hanzo out of his thoughts of cleanliness.

 

 

“He has been most supportive,” Hanzo replies.

 

“Supportive of what?”

 

Hanzo gives him a sharp smile and says nothing.

 

Jesse scowls. “I knew there was something not right about you suddenly having a dummy account on the practice range.”

 

“What makes you think that is me?” Hanzo asks. “It could be anyone. My specialty is with a bow.”

 

“Yeah, and I’ve got some nice ocean front property in Arizona. Willed down to me by my great-grand pappy no less,” Jesse scoffs.

 

 

“I will assume that you will take me there someday then. I quite enjoy the ocean.”

 

 

“You’re a real riot, you know that?”

 

“Eat your bacon,” Hanzo says. Jesse doesn’t seem inclined to balk at that particular order, so there is silence in the room for a while.

 

Hanzo takes a moment to stare at Jesse’s profile. His hair is still slightly damp and unkempt. His skin isn’t smooth, years of fighting and smoking having taken their toll. But the sight of him makes Hanzo’s heart light.

 

Like his twin dragons, storming through the skies, happiness curls inside him. Contentment follows in its wake, settling in his chest and warming it.

 

The future is as uncertain as it always is. Though he has broken apart and reconciled, he is not back where he was. He wonders if he would ever have made friends with Bastion or forged the bond of soldiers he has with Jack if Jesse had not broken up with him. Logic says that he would not have.

 

Fortune then, has favored him. Devastation has turned to joy.

 

Quietly, Hanzo stands from the bed. Even though he is almost silent, Jesse’s gaze tracks him. The question in his eyes will be soon answered.

 

With reverent hands, Hanzo takes his notebook from its hiding place. There is no need to keep a memento when they are still forging their story.

 

“I have something that I think you will be glad to have back.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it is finally finished! I originally planned for this story to be about 20,000 words, hence the proclamation that there would be two parts. 
> 
> I started this story with the intention to see relationship's through Hanzo's eyes, to look at his flaws and virtues, his highs and his lows. I'm very glad that so many of you have enjoyed this.
> 
> As I'm certain that some of you may ask: I have left the reason for their break-up and their discussions about their reconciliation as off screen as possible for a few reasons. First and most importantly, it would've been incredibly boring to read. In my mind, it was a myriad of little things bubbling to the surface, banging against their pride. Secondly, like with Jack's one big love, I feel like it's something that is best left to the imagination of the reader. We all have our personal limits for what we find acceptable and unacceptable actions and amends.
> 
> On Jack: I left him struggling but searching because it isn't his story. There is only so much Hanzo can do for him because of their relationship.
> 
> On Genji: I made him a bit of an asshole because he's a bit of an asshole in game. I want to smack him every time I hear his response to Winston being happy he's there. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!


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